Every Plan is a Tiny Prayer to Father Time
by Keitorin Asthore
Summary: He was told the boys were in a car wreck. He was told his son was fine. But he was told a lot of things, and mistakes are always possible.
1. And I Rationed My Breaths

Disclaimer: Glee belongs to Ryan Murphy and Fox, not me.

* * *

_And it came to me then that every plan is a tiny prayer to father time_

_As I stared at my shoes in the ICU that reeked of piss and 409_

_And I rationed my breaths as I said to myself that I'd already taken too much today_

_As each descending peak on the LCD took you a little farther away from me_

_Away from me_

_

* * *

_

This wasn't what he remembered at all. He remembered rain pelting metal and asphalt and concrete, remembered windshield wipers swishing and squeaking, remembered static on the radio. Not this.

He walked forward, the long grass brushing against his thighs. A soft wind blew, making the blades dance and the birch trees sway. Warm sunshine touched his skin. He smiled.

It was nice here. Maybe he could just stay.

* * *

The phone jangled loudly over the sounds of machinery and thunder. "Jack, can you get that?" Burt called. He turned back to the customer he was helping. "I don't think anyone in Ohio can drive in storms. We're gonna be running around like crazy for days."

He handed the frazzled-looking woman her receipt and a pen. Jack leaned out of the back, stretching the phone's cord as far as he could manage. "Burt, it's for you," he said.

"Tell 'em I'll call back," Burt said. He smiled at the woman as she handed back the signed receipt. "I swear, the number of people who think we're a towing place…"

"No, you have to talk to them," Jack said. "It's about your kid."

Burt froze, then turned around sharply and strode over to the phone. He yanked it out of Jack's hand. "Burt Hummel."

"Yes, Mr. Hummel, this is Officer Riley. I'm afraid I have some bad news."

Burt gripped the phone until his knuckles turned white. "What kind of bad news?" he demanded.

"Your son was in a car accident."

"What?"

"A car hydroplaned and rear-ended his vehicle."

Burt's heart thunked in his chest. "Well, is he all right?" he asked, dreading the answer.

"He doesn't seem to have any major injuries, but we're going to get him checked out. We're taking him to the hospital right now," the officer explained. Burt could hear the wail of sirens and the rush of passing cars in the background. "He was too shaken and disoriented to speak, but we got his cell phone and found your number on speed dial."

"Which hospital?" Burt asked. The relief was overwhelming. Kurt was fine. He was going to be fine.

"Good Samaritan. By the way, do you have any idea about the identity of his passenger?"

"His what?" But he remembered as soon as the question escaped, and it made his chest tighten just to think about it.

"Your son was driving, but his passenger was thrown from the vehicle. He's got some serious injuries."

"Finn," Burt said. "His name's Finn Hudson."

"Do you have any contact information for his family."

It was suddenly becoming very difficult to breathe. "He's my…he's my girlfriend's son," he said. "I'll call her."

The officer said something indistinct. Burt hung up the phone and pulled off his baseball cap.

"Who's in the hospital?" Jack asked.

Burt dragged his arm over his eyes. "The boys were in a wreck," he said.

"No way," Jack said. "Kurt okay?"

"Yeah…yeah, he's fine," Burt said. "Finn's not."

"That's Carole's kid, right? The football player?"

"Yeah," Burt said dully. He put his baseball cap back on. "I'm going down to the hospital. You're in charge."

"Me? But-"

"Handle it," Burt said. He grabbed his coat and the keys to his pickup and broke out of the shop into the pouring rain.

_I've never seen it get this dark in the day, even in a storm, _he thought. He tried to imagine Kurt steering the Navigator through weather like this…then pictured the SUV getting slammed and spinning off the road. He shook his head and jammed the keys in the ignition.

His phone fell out of his jacket pocket. Burt picked it up reluctantly.

_I should probably call her first._

He hit the speed dial, almost praying for voicemail. There was no way in hell that he could do this conversation.

She picked up on the second ring. "Burt, hi," she said. "Are you all right?"

"Me? Yeah, I'm fine," he said. "Listen…where are you right now?"

"I'm at home," she said. "I'm just waiting for the boys. They're really late, though. Do you think their rehearsal ran late? I know they're getting ready for sectionals, so-"

"Carole," Burt interrupted gently. "I got a call a few minutes ago."

"From the boys? Where are they?"

"Carole, they were in an accident."

He could hear Carole's breath catch. "Are they all right?" she demanded. "Where are they?"

"The officer said they were being taken to the hospital."

"Are they all right?" Carole repeated.

"Kurt's fine," Burt said. "They didn't think he had any major injuries, so he should be all right."

"Oh, thank God."

Burt waited.

"But…Finn. Is he okay?"

"He got thrown from the car."

The silence on the other end hung heavy for what seemed like forever. "Did they take him to Good Sam?" Carole asked, her voice quiet and steely.

"Uh-huh."

"I'll see you there."

She hung up abruptly. Burt stared at the blinking screen of his old flip phone, then closed it with a loud snap and dropped it in his cupholder. He revved the engine of his pickup and pulled out of the parking lot.

He almost wished Carole had cried, or something. He hated to see any woman, much less one he was in love with, cry, but at least if she had he could have lived vicariously through her.

But Carole was tough, and this wasn't the worst news she had ever gotten.

_I wonder what Mollie would have done_, he thought.

Mollie was a crier. She cried at everything- when she was sad, when she was happy, when she was angry. So she probably would have burst into tears and cried on her way to the hospital and then cried over Kurt, who probably would've ended up crying with her.

He was a lot like his mother, in many ways.

For a rebellious moment, he almost wished that it _was _Mollie he had had to call, that it was Mollie driving full-speed to meet him at the hospital. Kurt needed his mother.

But that was never going to happen.

Burt shook his head. He wasn't being fair to Carole. She was going through this too, but worse. He couldn't imagine the thought of how bad Finn's injuries might be. That kid lived for moving around- basketball, football, heck, even dancing around (badly) in glee club. If he was hurt bad…

Burt slowed down; the side of the road was illuminated by the revolving glow of blue and red lights on half a dozen police cars. Traffic crawled past the accident site. "Rubberneckers," he growled.

A black SUV was smashed into a tree, and it took him a second to recognize it. The front windshield was scattering in shining, shimmering pieces over the road. Twisted bits of metal that he vaguely recognized as the driver's side door heaped in the wet grass. The passenger side door hung open and cock-eyed, and something dark stained the upholstery on the inside.

Blood.

He realized that he had stopped, and the car behind him was honking. Burt sped up and drove as fast as he dared to the hospital.

* * *

"Honey, lie still. You're going to be all right."

He stared up at the bright white lights on the ceiling. "Am I dead?" he asked, his voice sounding thick and scratchy.

"No, you're going to be fine," the soothing voice said. "You were in a car accident."

"A what?"

He didn't remember a car accident. He didn't remember much of anything.

"You're going to feel a little sting. Do you want to hold my hand?"

He nodded, and regretted it; the room swam and he felt nauseous. A warm hand closed over his cold, sweating one. "What're they doing?" he asked.

"You have a couple of cuts that need stitches," the voice explained. "Just lie still, and stay calm. You'll be fine."

The thin needle slid into his eyebrow, burning like fire. He'd had stitches before, but he whimpered and squirmed despite himself. The nurse squeezed his hand.

He closed his eyes.

_Car accident. When did I get in a car accident?_

The stinging went away, replaced by something else that he didn't quite feel. The needle and thread wove in and out of the cut on his eyebrow; all he could feel was an odd, disassociated tugging.

He closed his eyes tighter, trying to make himself remember.

He remembered hearing rain falling and tires squealing.

He remembered slamming on the brakes.

He remembered the crunch of metal and the clash of glass shattering.

He remembered the forceful pain of his seatbelt pulling down on his chest, his head slamming forward, his neck whipping back.

He remembered hearing a scream, and knowing that it didn't come from him.

"There we are," the doctor said, snipping the thick black thread. "The first one's done."

He opened his eyes. "Where is he?" he rasped.

"Your dad's on his way," the nurse reassured him.

"No, no," he insisted. "Not him. Where did he go?"

The nurse glanced around, confused. "You're disoriented," she said. "Just lie still, all right?"

He sat up. The room spun wildly, like a dull-colored carnival ride. "No," he insisted. "Where is he?"

He couldn't form words very well. In his mind, he knew exactly what he was trying to say, but all that came out were short, stammered sentences.

The nurse took him by the shoulders and forced him to lie down. "No!" he shouted. "No! Where is he?"

"He's panicking."

"Get a sedative."

He pulled away, flinging his arms, barely noticing the pain or the soreness. "Where is he? Where is he?" he screamed.

Something white-hot pierced his arm. He looked up to see the doctor inserting a syringe. "Just calm down," he said. "You'll be fine."

The curtains drew back. "Doctor, this is his stepmother," a nurse explained.

He gazed blearily up at a woman with a kind, round voice and worried dark eyes. "I don't understand," she said. "I thought-"

The world began to melt. Dimly he heard the woman say something, then the doctor answer in a low rumble. The woman cried out, and the world disappeared as he fell into peaceful unconsciousness.

* * *

Burt parked the car and ducked through the rain into the emergency room. The waiting room was surprisingly quiet- a mother holding a sleeping toddler, a young man with a makeshift bandage wrapped around his forearm, a pale pregnant girl holding her husband's hand. He sidestepped them and made his way to the front desk.

"My son was brought in from a car wreck on Taylor Mill Road," he said without preamble.

The nurse looked up. "You're Kurt Hummel's father?" she said.

"Yes," he said. "Where is he?"

"He's getting stitched up in room 4," she said. "Down the hall to the left. His stepmother's already with him."

Even in his panicked state, it warmed his heart to think of Carole describing himself as Kurt's stepmother."What about her son?" he asked. "My stepson. Finn Hudson."

"He's in emergency surgery right now," the nurse said. "I don't really know the details, but I'll let the doctors know you're here so they can talk to you."

"Thanks," he said. He turned and strode down the hallway.

The door to room 4 was closed, but he could hear crying. He frowned. He heard a woman's raised voice, and a man's calm, measured response.

He opened the door. Carole was arguing with a doctor, her face red and tearstained. "How could you do this?" she demanded.

"Mistakes happen, Ms. Hudson, and in a situation like this…"

"What's going on?" Burt asked.

Carole turned around. "Burt, they made a mistake," she said.

"What kind of mistake?" he said, his voice rising.

Carole gripped his arms. "Kurt wasn't driving," she said. "They made a mistake."

Burt looked down at the boy on the examining table. He was fast asleep, his head tilted back. Several dark lines of stitches stood out on his face, shoulders, and arms.

But he was tall, and lanky, and dark haired. His gray McKinley hoodie had been cut away, but a big red number five still stuck out on the front.

It was Finn.

"Where's my son?" Burt asked quietly.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

This was going to be just a quick, off the cuff oneshot, but it got to be a little bigger than that. I think it'll be in three parts.

It's nice to take a break from working on _Blacking Out the Friction. _That's my Glee multichapter fic...aaaaand I'm struggling with it majorly. Gah. So this is a nice change.

Also, apparently I've been in the mood for death cab for cutie. Weird.

I actually went to high school in Ohio (well, on the border of Kentucky and Ohio) and the thing I remember the most is storms. Man alive, did it rain. It was pretty much incessant.

I'm rambling.

I hope you like this. I would really appreciate reviews and feedback!


	2. A Faulty Camera in Our Minds

Disclaimer: Glee belongs to Ryan Murphy and Fox, not me.

* * *

_Amongst the vending machines and year-old magazines _

_In a place where we only say goodbye_

_It stung like a violent wind that our memories depend on a faulty camera in our minds_

_But I knew that you were a truth I would rather lose than to have never lain beside at all_

_And I looked around at all the eyes on the ground as the TV entertained itself_

_

* * *

_

He kept on walking. The grass tickled lightly against his bare feet. The soft green seemed to spread forever, matched only by the neverending expanse of blue sky. Tall waving birch trees stood sentinel at intervals.

Someone sat beneath the drooping arms of a particularly tall birch. He strolled towards the stranger.

A young woman, perhaps in her late twenties, sat in the shade. She turned the pages of a book at a leisurely pace, occasionally reaching up to tuck a thick dark curl behind her ear. She looked up and smiled as he approached.

"You look like you've been waiting for me," he said, his voice sounding surprisingly quiet in the great stretch of silence.

"I hoped I wasn't," she said. She put her book down in the grass and brushed off the skirt of her dress- it was blue, with little white sailboats.

"What am I doing here?" he asked.

She smiled. "Don't you know?" she asked.

"Not really," he said. "I sort of hoped…you could tell me."

She smiled again, and held out her hand. "Let's take a walk."

* * *

Burt leaned against the doorway and watched Carole grip her son's hand. Finn slept soundly, still under the influence of the sedative. Carole kept one hand tight in hers and the other against her son's cheek.

"So how'd this happen?" Burt said, struggling to keep his voice even.

The doctor shifted his weight awkwardly. "The officer on the scene said that this boy was in the driver's seat," he said. "There was a phone in his sweatshirt pocket, and he dialed the number saved for 'dad.' That's all we know. I'm so sorry about the mixup."

"Why was Finn driving Kurt's car?" Burt said. "And why'd he have Kurt's phone?"

"I don't know," Carole said in a low voice. "They're doing the best they can for him."

"They should be finishing your son's surgery soon," the doctor offered. "We'll let you know as soon as we know something."

The doctor left. Burt continued to lean against the door, staring at the floor. Carole held tightly to Finn's hand.

He couldn't take it. Kurt was supposed to be okay. They had promised that Kurt was fine, just some minor injuries. Finn should be the one in surgery right now. It was only fair. Finn was bigger, and tougher, and stronger. He could bounce back from a car accident.

Not Kurt. The worst injury he'd ever had was breaking his wrist when he was learning to ride a bicycle. He was smaller than Finn, more fragile. It would be harder for him to bounce back.

If he could bounce back at all.

Burt stood up. "I'll be back," he said hoarsely. Carole nodded, her eyes trained on her sleeping son.

The halls of the hospital were quieting down. It was nearly seven o'clock; visitors were heading home to eat dinner and the shifts were beginning to switch over. He walked aimlessly down the hall and sank into a seat tucked away in a quiet corner. Doctors and nurses and candy stripers walked past them, too focused on their own work to notice him.

_I guess this is what it was like for Kurt, _he thought. Just a few months ago, the roles had been reversed. He had been the one unconscious and uncaring, Kurt had sat by himself, hoping the worst wouldn't come to pass.

Now it was his turn. He hated it.

"Excuse me, sir, I…Mr. Hummel?"

A pretty blonde candy striper stood in front of him, twisting her fingers together. He looked at her dully and tried to put a name with her face. "You're in the glee club?" he guessed.

She nodded. "I'm Quinn," she said. "I know your son."

He remembered her now, vaguely, from conversations with Kurt. "What are you doing here?" he asked.

She flushed pink. "I needed an after school job to help my mom," she said. "Why are you here? Are you having another heart attack?"

He shook his head.

Quinn sat down beside him. "Is it Kurt?" she asked. "Or Finn?"

He stared down at the scuff marks on the linoleum floor. "The boys were in a car accident," he said.

Quinn put her hands to her mouth. "Are they-"

"Finn's doing okay," he said. "His mom's with him. Just some cuts and bruises."

"What about Kurt? Is he all right?" she asked.

He locked his fingers together and flexed his knuckles. Quinn waited, almost not breathing. "We're waiting for him to get out of surgery," he said.

"Mr. Hummel, I'm so sorry," Quinn said. She reached out like she was going to take his hand, then drew back. "Is there something I can do?"

He shook his head. "All anybody can do is wait," he shrugged.

"Would it be okay if I told the other glee kids?" she ventured. "They'd really like to know, I think. About both of them." He hesitated, then nodded. Quinn looked down at her knees, fiddling anxiously with the cross pendant on her necklace.

"Quinn, we need you downstairs," a nurse said in passing.

"Coming," she said, rising to her feet. "I'll let them know. Just tell me if…if anything changes, okay?" He nodded. She disappeared down the hall, her white keds making no noise on the floor.

So he kept waiting.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed. Maybe an hour…maybe fifteen minutes. But at long last he stood up and shuffled down the hallway like a sleepwalker. As he came towards Finn's room, he saw two doctors talking in low voices. They glanced up as he came close.

"Mr. Hummel, your son's out of surgery," the young doctor said.

His head snapped up. The other doctor approached him, his sickly green surgical scrubs lightly spotted with red. "You're the father?" he asked. Burt nodded wordlessly. "He had some severe internal injuries, but it looks like the bleeding is under control. Now we just need to wait for him to wake up.'

He could only nod, the world spinning around him. It was morbid, but he had half expected the doctor to inform him of his son's death on the table. He heard bits of phrases from the doctor…cracked ribs, punctured lung, broken arm….but all could think was that his son wasn't dead. At least not yet.

"…but I do think it's fair to tell you, Mr. Hummel, but he did stop breathing during the surgery."

"He what?"

"It happened twice. He's doing better, but until we're sure he can breathe steadily on his own, we're keeping him on oxygen."

Burt rubbed the back of his neck. "Can I see him?" he asked quietly.

"We're moving him from post-op to intensive care. We'll let you know when he's ready for visitors."

The doctor said something else that he couldn't hear over the sudden roaring in his ears, and walked away. He stood in the middle of the hall, staring blankly after him.

* * *

Quinn ducked into a janitor's closet, away from the prying eyes of her supervisors. She pulled out her phone, selected a dozen senders, and tapped out a text message.

Mercedes tapped her pencil on the page of her algebra textbook. "Becca, turn that down," she called.

Her younger sister sprawled out on the couch, a notebook and pen in hand. "I have to watch the news for my civics homework," she said.

"Well, you don't have to play it so loud," she said. Becca rolled her eyes and turned it up louder.

"…and it seems the current storms in the Lima area have made driving conditions incredibly dangerous…" the station anchor droned.

Mercedes glanced up at the screen. The camera panned by the crumpled remains of a black SUV, smashed into a tree with pieces scattered around it like discarded toys.

"This accident occurred on Taylor Mill Road, sometime around four-thirty. The driver escaped with minor injuries, but his passenger was thrown from the vehicle."

She couldn't tear her eyes away from the screen. She knew that car. She just didn't want to. So she shook her head and turned back to her homework.

Her cell phone buzzed, skittering across the table as it vibrated. She picked it up.

_Kurt and Finn were in a wreck. They're at the hospital._

"…so just remember, folks. Be cautious when driving in storms. They could be deadly."

* * *

Quinn sat on an overturned bucket in the janitor's closet, staying as long as she dared. She just wanted to know if anyone was listening.

Her phone lit up repeatedly, vibrating in her hand with each incoming message. She scrolled through the replies, and clutched the phone in relief as the friends she had come to rely on came through once again. She closed the phone, slipped it into her pocket, and ducked into the hall without anyone noticing where she had gone.

* * *

"Mr. Hummel, you can see him now."

He stepped into the room. The nurse left the room quietly, shutting the door behind her. He approached his son's bed, and his heart thudded in his chest.

Kurt was almost unrecognizable. A clear oxygen mask covered most of his face; his soft light breaths fogged the plastic. A white bandage obscured his right eye, and the thin skin around his left was bruised. His shoulders were bare, but his chest was wrapped tightly in more bandages. A cast enclosed his left wrist, and for a moment Burt remembered when his son was little and broke the same arm. He'd cried, of course, and curled up in his mother's lap for comfort. She had spoiled him completely the whole afternoon after they brought him home from the emergency room, letting him watch whatever he liked and letting him eat ice cream for dinner.

At the time, it seemed like such a world-changing incident. His child was hurt, bad enough to go to the hospital. He had been unreasonably anxious, hoping that his little boy would be all right.

Now all he wished was that this had been as simple as falling off a bicycle.

He came closer and placed his hand on top of Kurt's. His son's fingers felt soft and fragile. "Hey, kiddo," he whispered. "It's your dad."

If this was a movie, Kurt would open his eyes and smile faintly. But this was real life.

"I don't know if you can hear me, Kurt, but I'm right here," he said. His big, rough hand closed over Kurt's. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm here."

* * *

Quinn peeked into the room. "Hi," she whispered. "Is he asleep?"

Finn blinked blearily. "No, m'awake," he mumbled.

"He's resting," his mother said, frowning. "What are you doing here?"

Quinn twisted her fingers together. Apparently Finn's mother still hadn't gotten over the whole lying-about-her-baby's-father situation. "I heard about the accident," she said. "I wanted to see if he was all right."

"He's doing fine, all things considered," Carole said. She kept her hand firmly over Finn's wrist.

"'m fine," Finn echoed. He tried to sit up. "Where's he? Where'd he go?"

"What?" Quinn asked, taking a step towards him without thinking.

"Honey, Kurt's in the hospital too," Carole reassured him. "He's safe. Just like you."

Finn slumped back against the pillows. "He's all…broken," he slurred.

"Have you heard anything?" Quinn asked. "About Kurt, I mean."

Finn's mother shook her head. "His father's with him," she said.

"I let the others know about the accident," Quinn said. "I hope that's okay. I just thought…they ought to know."

"Thank you," Carole said quietly.

Finn struggled to sit up again. "Where's Kurt?" he said again. "I gotta find him." Carole put her hands on his shoulders and made him lie back. "It's all right, he's safe," she soothed.

"Doesn't he remember?" Quinn asked.

She tucked the blankets securely around her son. "He can't remember anything clearly," she explained. "We're hoping that when he's had some time to rest and his sedatives wear off, he'll be able to tell us what happened."

The door swung open and Burt stepped into the room. His face had gone gray; it looked like he'd aged ten years in the past few hours. "Burt!" Carole said. "How is he?"

"Bad," Burt said shortly. He sat down heavily in the chair beside the door. "He's bad off."

Quinn pressed herself back, feeling like she was intruding on what was supposed to be a private moment.

"Why was Finn driving?" Burt said, half to himself. "It's Kurt's car. I told him not to let anyone else drive it. But Finn was driving Kurt's car, and he had Kurt's phone in his pocket." He took his baseball cap off and slapped it against his knee in frustration. "How did this happen?"

"Burt," Carole said sharply.

He sighed. "I know," he said. "I know that's not fair."

Quinn edged out of the room and closed the door. She couldn't stand listening to that. Kurt's dad was right- it wasn't fair. It wasn't fair to either of them.

A passing nurse caught her by the arm. "What were you doing?" she said. "You've got work to do."

She pulled away. "He's my ex-boyfriend, all right?" she said. "We're friends. I just wanted to see if he's okay."

"That's not your job," the nurse said. "You're needed down-"

"Quinn!"

She whirled around. Most of the glee club stood in the hallway- Mercedes, Rachel, Brittany, Artie…even Puck. "What's going on?" he asked, his dark eyes boring into her.

Rachel rushed the rest of the length of the hall and grabbed Quinn by the hands. "Where's Finn?" she said.

"He's in there," Quinn said.

"What about Kurt?" Puck asked.

"Intensive care, upstairs."

The door to Finn's room opened. "What are you-" Carole's voice trailed off as she saw her son's friends gathered in the hallway. "Did you come to see the boys?"

Rachel pushed through. "Can I see him?" she begged, tears soaking down her cheeks.

Carole put her arm around Rachel's shoulders. "Of course, honey," she said. She glanced up. "He's very tired, and he probably won't talk much, but if you all would like to come see him for a minute or two, I'm sure it'll be fine."

She held the door open and they all shuffled in. Quinn stayed in the back and tried to stop herself from rolling her eyes as Rachel flung herself on Finn's bedside. He smiled vaguely. "What're you doing here?" he asked. Rachel burst into tears; Finn patted her sleepily on the head.

"Hey, man," Puck said, grasping his best friend's hand. "How're you feeling?"

"Tired," he said. "Got a headache."

The glee club members gathered around Finn's bedside, all of them seemingly trying to come up with something comforting to do or say, but failing miserably. Finn just grinned that sleepy half-smile up at them, too tired and disoriented to say much.

Quinn hung back by the door, trying to hide from her supervisor and from her friends at the same time. Kurt's dad stood up from his chair in the back and headed towards the door, patting her shoulder lightly as he walked by.

"Mr. Hummel?" Burt stopped. Tina pulled away from the rest of the group. "Can we see Kurt?" she asked.

"He's not really up to visitors right now," he said, his voice quiet and raspy. "I'm glad you kids are so concerned about him, but…I don't think you ought to see him like this."

"Can Mercedes see him, at least?" Brittany asked. The others turned to look at her; she trained her eyes on Burt. "He likes her best."

"Please, Mr. Hummel?" Mercedes begged.

"He doesn't look good," Burt warned. She raised and lowered one shoulder, as if to say she didn't care. "All right. Just for a minute or two."

Quinn leaned against the back wall as Burt put his hand on Mercedes' arm and walked with her into the hallway. The others huddled around Finn's bed, quiet and subdued. She could tell their thoughts were far away. Hers were too.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

Oh my goodness, thank you so much for all the alerts, favorites, and most of all the reviews! I'm so glad that you're enjoying this story. I've actually developed it further, so it'll end up longer than just three parts. I hope you like the new chapter!

I thought about Quinn and her mother being on their own, and how money would probably be a little tighter than it had been before. So she would very conveniently have a part-time job at the hospital as a candystriper.

The next chapter will center more on Finn trying to remember details of the accident. It's going to be rough.

Please let me know what you think of this story! I'd love to hear what you have to say!


	3. Love is Watching Someone Die

Disclaimer: Glee belongs to Ryan Murphy and Fox, not me.

* * *

'_Cause there's no comfort in the waiting room_

_Just nervous pacers bracing for bad news_

_And then the nurse comes round and everyone will lift their heads_

_But I'm thinking of what Sarah said _

_that "Love is watching someone die"_

_

* * *

_

He liked holding her hand. Her skin was soft and smooth and her slender fingers curled easily around his- not gripping too tight, but not very loose, either. It was calming, somehow.

They walked side by side in companionable, comfortable silence. She turned to look at him every so often, smiling. He smiled back.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"I don't know," she said. She squeezed his hand. "I was hoping you could tell me."

He frowned slightly. "I don't even know where I am," he said.

She rubbed her thumb over the back of his hand. "You'll figure it out, sooner or later," she said.

* * *

The members of the glee club had never been this quiet.

Will surveyed his students, all of them sitting in silence. They had trickled in before the school day started, turning to each other for support. Rachel still sat in the front row, but the seats on either side of her were vacant, and she was wringing her fingers together. Tina sat close to Mercedes, her hand on her arm.

Will cleared his throat. "I know you guys are all really upset about Kurt and Finn," he said quietly. "I am too." Rachel looked up, tears brimming in her dark eyes. She pressed her lips together hard, trying desperately not to cry.

"Does anybody know how they're doing?" Artie spoke up softly.

Quinn fiddled with the hem of her Cheerios skirt. "Finn was awake when I left last night," she said. "He still doesn't remember what happened, but he was talking and acting pretty normal."

"What about Kurt?" Brittany asked.

Quinn bit her lip. "He's still unconscious," she said slowly, trying her best to choose her words carefully. "He lost a lot of blood, and the hospital's blood bank is pretty much empty. They're trying to get some flown in from Cincinnati so he can get a transfusion."

"What blood type is he?" Will asked.

"O negative, I think," she said. "It's pretty hard to come by."

Mercedes looked up. "He looks awful," she said in a low voice. Tina squeezed her arm.

Will tugged at his sleeves, trying desperately to think of something to day that might possibly comfort his students. But damage control after a horrific car accident wasn't really covered during his teaching training.

"Listen, you guys," he said. "Let's just try to get through today. Maybe we can visit them after rehearsal today."

The morning bell, indicating the start of homeroom, clanged loudly overhead. They stood up slowly, dragging their feet. He knew that if it was up to them, they would hide in the rehearsal room all day- or better yet, travel en masse to the hospital.

He watched them leave, and sighed to himself as he headed to his classroom in preparation for second period Spanish. Things really weren't the same without Finn and Kurt.

* * *

He loped into the emergency room, the sliding doors closing behind him, and walked up to the front desk. The nurse didn't glance up from her paperwork.

"Go ahead and sign in, honey, we'll be with you in just a second," she said absently.

"Uh, yeah," he said. "Yeah, I'm fine. This is about Kurt Hummel."

She looked up and frowned. "If you're here to visit, you can go to the front desk and ask there," she said. "This is for emergency patients."

"Well, it's sort of an emergency," he said. "I heard he needs a transfusion or whatever and there isn't any in the blood bank."

"You want to give blood?" she said, raising an eyebrow skeptically.

"Look, he's O negative," he said. "Same as me. Why not let me give blood now, instead of waiting for it to get here?"

She folded her hands on her desk. "Honey, are you sure you want to do this?" she said.

"I'm sure."

She sighed. "I'll call up to his ward," she said. "I'll need to get your files. What's your name?"

"Puckerman," he said. "Noah Puckerman."

"Take a seat, Noah," she said. "I'll let you know when they're ready for you."

He sat down in an uncomfortable chair. The ER waiting room was quiet. He had never been there in the daytime. He'd been to the emergency room a couple of times, but it was usually during a football game or something. Midday on a Wednesday was just weird.

Puck stretched out his long legs and picked up an issue of Highlights for Children from the late 1990s. He flipped through it idly, trying not to think about what he was about to do.

Nearly an hour passed before the nurse called for him. "Noah, they're ready for you," she said. "He's in room 313 upstairs. They're going to do a direct transfusion."

He wasn't quite sure what that meant. "Sure," he said. "Thanks."

He took the elevator to the third floor and gulped hard when the doors slid open. It was quiet, way too quiet. The nurse's station was flanked by rows of rooms with clear glass walls and doors. It looked like something off a medical show on television, like _House _or something, nothing like the small, plain, curtained-off rooms in the normal wards.

He walked up to the nurse's station, jamming his hands awkwardly in his back pockets. "I think I'm supposed to be up here," he hedged. "I have to give blood?"

"Oh, Noah Puckerman?" the nurse said. She pointed to one of the glass rooms. "They're all set up for you right there."

He walked towards room 313; his heart thudded in his ribcage as he slid the door open. Two beds were set up in the room, one occupied and one empty. A doctor and a nurse busied themselves with a small table set up with all sorts of scary-looking implements.

"There you are," the nurse said. "Go ahead and lie down. We'll get you started in a second.

Puck obeyed and hopped onto the low flat bed. The crisp sheets crinkled under him, smelling strongly of bleach. He folded his hands across his stomach and stared up at the ceiling.

"Extend your arm for me, Noah," the doctor said. "We're going to make an incision on your arm to access the radial vein."

He held out his arm and let them work over him. The pain wasn't that bad. Pretty manageable, actually. It wasn't until they inserted the tube into his vein that he actually winced. He stared up at the ceiling, ingraining the pattern in the tiles into his memory.

Blood trickled from his left arm through the clear acrylic tubing. Despite himself, he watched the blood travel from his body to the person in the bed next to him, mere inches away.

Puck had had no intention of actually seeing him. He was just going to come in and give some blood. It was no big deal. He'd stopped by the bloodmobile a couple of times before, after all. But this was different.

He had never seen anyone look this vulnerable before. Especially not Hummel. Even when he was getting tossed into dumpsters he held his chin stubbornly high, as if he still holding onto his pride. He looked like a fricking ten-year-old, but he acted like he was the queen of Sheba.

Whoever it was in the bed next to him…there was no way that could be Kurt Hummel.

The person next to him was thin and stark white. The oxygen mask over his face obscured most of his facial features. His narrow chest barely rose and fell with his breathing.

Puck couldn't tear his eyes away. He stared at him, barely registering the steady flow of blood from his body to Kurt's. The kid looked barely alive. No wonder Mercedes had looked so shell-shocked.

Finally the doctor ended the transfusion. "That should hold him steady until the shipment comes in from Cincinnati," he said. Puck settled back into the bed as the nurse bandaged his arm. "Son, you've done a lot for this boy. Getting this blood will get him stable a lot faster."

Puck shrugged. He wanted to say that it was nothing, that he skipped his third and fourth period classes all the time anyway. Somehow, nothing managed to come out.

The nurse moved over to Kurt, wrapping bandages around his right arm and readjusting the IV in his left. Puck watched her raise Kurt's slender, almost lifeless hands as she tended to him.

"You'll want to rest for at least an hour," the doctor said. "The nurse can bring you something to eat."

Puck leaned back and stared up at the ceiling. One more hour, and then he could go. He couldn't wait to leave. Knowing that Kurt was lying next to him, unconscious, possibly never to wake up, was too unsettling for him to stay.

* * *

Rehearsal was a bust. They'd only been going at it for twenty minutes when it dawned on Will that _stupid, you should have just canceled it._

No one had the energy to sing, much less dance. Usually he could rely on Rachel to rally the troops, but even she couldn't do much then half-heartedly mumble the words to the new song. Mercedes was absolutely useless, staring blankly down her sheet music. Even Puck was pale and quiet.

Will cut them off in the middle of a phrase. "Do you guys just want to go down to the hospital now?" he asked.

"Yes," Tina said, tossing aside her sheet music in relief. Rachel leaped to her feet and started shoving her belongings into her backpack.

Will sat down on his stool, watching the students gather their things eagerly. On one hand, he was glad to see that they cared so deeply for their injured friends. On the other, he wasn't sure how things would go if Kurt got worse. Sure, Finn would be fine. His injuries were mostly superficial, and he was already getting better. But Kurt…

"Mr. Schuester?" Artie asked. "Are you coming too?"

He shook his head. "Sure," he said. He picked up his briefcase and glanced around the rapidly emptying room. "Puck? You coming?"

Puck glanced up, putting his hand behind his head and stretching his legs lazily. "Not right now," he said. "Maybe later. Tired. You know how it is."

Will frowned. "Finn's your best friend," he said. "Don't you want to go see him?"

"Maybe later," Puck repeated. He pulled on his letterman's jacket, easing his left arm carefully through the sleeve, as if it hurt him. "See you later, Mr. Schue."

Will picked up his briefcase and followed his students out into the hallway. He watched Puck turn and walk away, wondering what on earth was going through his head that would make him so self-absorbed that he couldn't even go see his best friend in the hospital.

* * *

Carole sat close to her son's bed, trying to focus on her book. Finn's snoring was a bit on the distracting side- definitely one of the many ways he took after his father.

For the umpteenth time she put the book down and gazed at her son. It was no wonder he was exhausted. All of his Glee friends had shown up after school, descending upon him en masse for a visit. He had been glad to see them, and had been more coherent with them than he had been for the past two days. The rest of the time, though, he spent drifting in and out of sleep, mostly thanks to the sedatives the doctors had prescribed. None of his injuries had been dangerous, just a couple of deep cuts and bad bruises, but he was just so…irrational lately.

The doctors said it was probably the head injury. As far as they could see, Finn had slammed his head into the steering wheel and given himself a pretty bad concussion. Another day or two at the hospital and he'll be fine, they said. Just so they could keep an eye on him. Then he could go home.

Carole placed her hand on Finn's and squeezed it tightly. As much as she wanted to take him home and away from the hospital, things weren't going to get much better. Not if Kurt was still in such bad condition.

She pressed her hand against her son's cheek. Finn still couldn't remember what happened. It was driving him crazy. Whenever he was awake, he was talking about Kurt- asking where he was, if he was okay. Sometimes he made vague references to seeing Kurt injured, or that he was bleeding.

But when anyone asked him if he remembered what happened, he could only get upset, saying that he didn't know, he didn't know, and where was Kurt?

Sometimes he begged to be allowed to see him. Privately, Carole thought he should. Maybe it would help Finn remember.

But Burt always refused, gently but firmly, telling Finn that Kurt was sleeping and couldn't see anyone. Finn accepted it begrudgingly. There wasn't much he could do about it, after all.

Carole had gone to see Kurt a couple of times. She didn't know what was worse- seeing her almost-stepson so pale and lifeless, or seeing his father so broken over him.

Burt didn't talk much about himself. He never did. But she knew that he was devastated over his son. Kurt was his only child. He spent the past eight years acting as father and mother to him. And he was the only reminder he had left of his wife.

They had talked about their spouses before. She told him about Christopher, how they got married in her second year of college because he was leaving for the military, how they had a few precious years together before he was killed. And Burt had told her about Mollie.

They had been dating for three and a half years when she told him she was pregnant. He was a recent junior college grad who had given up his football dreams when he blew his knee out, she was a high school senior with plans of studying art and music and seeing the world. Despite her parents' repeated offers to pay for an abortion and abject disapproval of her older boyfriend, she married him anyway, and Kurt was born a month before her high school graduation.

"I never knew why she picked me," Burt had said. "She could had anyone, could have done whatever she wanted with her life. But she picked me…and she loved me." Carole had found an old photo album in the back of the closet when she was moving her things into Burt's house. She had given in and peeked through the pages. They were neatly organized, with dates written in round, pretty cursive on the back. The photographs were like every other family album- birthdays, Christmas, Easter, Halloween, vacations. Burt looked so much younger, thinner and with ash blond hair instead of grayed and balding. She smiled at that.

The last picture in the album was a photograph of Mollie. She was in a park, sitting on the green grass, with the skirt of her dress spread around her- it was blue, with little white sailboats. Somehow she seemed paler and thinner than she had in previous pictures, but she smiled brightly at the camera. Kurt was curled up beside her, his hair slightly mussed, his grin slightly gap-toothed. They had the same eyes, wide and shining and caught somewhere between blue and green.

Carole had slipped the photograph out of the album and checked the date- April 30, 2002. It gave her chill when she realized that Mollie had died only a few weeks later.

Mollie's death had shaken Burt to the core. Knowing that Kurt was relying on him to take care of him was the only thing that had kept him going. And if Kurt didn't pull through…

Carole took a deep breath and squeezed her son's hand tightly. She would think about it when she had to think about it. Right now she would just continue to be thankful that Finn was going to be okay, and keep standing by Burt.

That was all she could do.

* * *

Quinn didn't mind working at the hospital, but she did mind being there late at night. It was just too quiet and creepy.

She walked alone down the hallway, her ugly white sneakers squeaking on the tile floor. There wasn't much to do this late, and she had already finished cleaning the rooms she'd been assigned to do.

She paused outside the door to Finn's room, and after a second she placed her hand on the handle and turned it slowly. He looked up when she came in, smiling faintly in the dim shadows. "Hey, Quinn," he said.

"Hi," she said, approaching carefully. "How are you feeling?"

"Pretty good, I guess," he said. "Can you turn the light on?"

She switched on the table lamp, casting a soft warm glow around them. "When did your mom leave?" she asked.

"An hour ago, I think," Finn said.

"Do you want me to get you anything?" she asked.

He shook his head. She smoothed the blankets over him, smiling awkwardly. It was hard to think of anything to say.

"Hey, Quinn?"

"What?" she said.

"Why won't they let me see Kurt?" he asked quietly.

She bit her lip. "Kurt is…" she started to say. "He's not…Finn, he was hurt really badly."

He glanced down. "I wish I knew what happened," he said.

She sat down on the edge of his bed and placed her hands on his. "Finn, it was just an accident," she said.

"What if I caused it?" he said. "I don't remember if I did." "It's going to be okay," she reassured him.

He looked up at her then, his dark eyes serious. "Is Kurt going to die?" he asked.

She gripped his hands. "I don't know," she confessed.

"Quinn, I want to see him," he said. "No one's let me see him, and I have to."

"I don't know if that's a good idea," she said warily. "Kurt's dad-"

"Burt doesn't have to know," Finn argued. "I really, really want to see him."

Quinn sighed. "Let me go get a wheelchair," she said. "You probably shouldn't walk all the way up there."

She didn't miss Finn's eyes lighting up as she left the room. Sure, she might get in trouble for this, but Finn was right. He really did deserve to see him.

She came back with a borrowed wheelchair. Finn was already sitting up, his legs hanging over the side of the bed. She rolled it right next to him, pulled the brake, and helped him transfer from the bed to the chair.

"This is kind of weird," he said.

"I know," she said, taking off the brake and wheeling him into the hallway. "You've got to be really quiet, okay? I probably shouldn't be doing this."

"I really appreciate it," he said.

"What did I tell you about being quiet?"

"Okay. Sorry."

She pushed him down the hallway to the elevator. No one noticed them and she let out the breath she was unconsciously holding as the silver doors closed over them. It really wouldn't go over well if she was caught.

The elevator opened onto the third floor and she wheeled him down the hall. The intensive care ward was mostly quiet and empty. She could see the light on in Kurt's room, and the only nurse around was absorbed in her paperwork at the front desk.

Finn was silent as she closed the door behind them and wheeled him close to Kurt's bed. "What all is wrong with him?" he asked.

"He broke a couple of ribs and punctured one of his lungs," she said. "Broken arm, some bad cuts…and he dislocated his knee."

Finn wheeled himself a little closer. "Can he hear me?" he asked.

"I don't know," Quinn said. "He's been unconscious since the wreck."

Finn put his hand on the edge of Kurt's bed. "Hey," he said softly. "It's me, Kurt. It's Finn."

Quinn took a few steps back, twisting her fingers together. Somehow it felt wrong to be there.

Finn put his hand on Kurt's upper arm. "I'm sorry this happened," he said. "I'm sorry that you're the one who got hurt, and that I'm the one who's okay."

Kurt didn't answer him. The only sound was his soft, faint breathing.

"I'm sorry," Finn whispered. "I'm really, really sorry. I wish I could remember what happened." He brushed Kurt's hair away from his forehead. "You're the closest thing I have to a brother, Kurt. You have to get better, okay?"

His voice was beginning to shake. Quinn approached him cautiously. "Let's go back," she said gently. "You need to rest."

Finn didn't answer. He just stared at Kurt, as if he could wake him up just by wanting it hard enough.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

This story has a terrible title but I don't feel like changing it...

Also, Will Schuester is the king of obliviousness.

I'm actually writing a story about Burt and Mollie. I'm pretty sure it's going to be called "Lima Loser" and it'll come up at some point soon. I'm really having fun with it.

I hope you like this chapter! There's going to be three more after this. Let me know what you think of it!


	4. Just Our Hands Clasped So Tight

Disclaimer: Glee belongs to Ryan Murphy and Fox, not me.

* * *

_Love of mine, someday you will die_

_But I'll be close behind_

_I'll follow you into the dark_

_No blinding light or tunnels to gates of white_

_Just our hands clasped so tight_

_Waiting for the hint of a spark_

It slowly dawned on him that maybe they were walking away from something.

She didn't give any indication that there was trouble. She never seemed concerned, never seemed worried. She just held his hand and walked beside him.

But eventually his curiosity got the better of him, and he glanced over his shoulder. His hand tightened on hers. "What's that?" he whispered.

"What's what?" she asked.

He stopped and turned around, pointing behind them. Something black spread across the peaceful horizon, oozing like ink through the sky and across the grass.

She tugged gently on his hand, making him walk with her in the opposite direction of the blackness. "Don't think about it," she said. "You'll be safe as long as you stay with me."

He obeyed, walking beside her, the breeze soft and calming as it brushed against his skin and lifted her long hair. She squeezed his hand, rubbing her thumb against his knuckles, and even though he didn't know why, he wasn't afraid, even with the threat of the darkness fast approaching.

* * *

He pulled his shirt on carefully. His chest still ached; the bruise from his seatbelt still arced darkly across his ribcage. His mother helped him tug it down.

"I feel like a six-year-old," he said, grinning sheepishly.

Carole patted him on the cheek. "You're just sore," she said. "The doctors said you'll be moving around just fine in a few days."

Finn staggered back to his bed and sat down heavily. "Ugh," he said. "I'll be glad when I'm back to normal."

She kissed him lightly on the temple. "Me too, honey," she said.

A nurse brought a wheelchair into his room. "All right, Finn," she said. "The doctors have given you the all-clear to go home, but you have to ride out of here."

Finn flexed his fingers. "Yeah, I probably can't walk out of here," he admitted.

Carole wrapped her arms around her lanky son's waist and helped him stand up. Finn wobbled a bit on the short walk from his hospital bed to his wheelchair. He plunked down hard with a heavy sigh. "I'm so tired," he said.

The nurse smiled as she wheeled him out of the room and down the hallway. "That's to be expected," she said. "You'll be better soon, I promise."

Finn glanced around the busy hospital halls, glad to be staring at something other than the pale blue walls of his hospital room. "Like…playing football soon kind of better?" he asked.

"Oh, no," Carole said. "Not for a while."

"You'll have to come in for checkups before you can get permission for that," the nurse said. "They want to make sure your memory is back, too."

Finn frowned. "Yeah, that'd probably be good," he mused.

Carole took the handles of the wheelchair as they reached the front door. "Your memory will come back in time, honey," she said. He took in a deep breath as the sunshine finally hit him. It was a huge relief to finally to be out of that tiny room.

His mother rolled him up to the passenger seat of her old station wagon, opened the door, and helped him up. He fastened the seatbelt, his fingers suddenly shaking. The seatbelt constricted across his torso, making his chest hurt.

Carole got into the driver's seat and put the key into the ignition. "I've got lunch for you at home," she said, turning the key and pulling out of the parking lot. "All your favorites. And Rachel said she'd come by with the other glee kids after school. I thought that-"

Her voice trailed off. "Finn? Honey, are you all right?"

He gripped the door handle tightly with his right hand and tugged the seatbelt away from him with his left. "Yeah," he gasped. "Yeah, I just think…it'll be better when I'm home."

Carole put her hand on his knee. "It's okay," she said. "Let me know if you need me to stop."

"I'll be fine," he said. He leaned back in his seat, still tugging at the belt. That phrase sounded familiar, and he didn't know why.

It took a second…and then he realized why it sounded so familiar. It was Kurt's favorite phrase.

_It's fine._

_I'm okay._

_Don't worry._

Finn sighed. He still couldn't get Kurt out of his mind. He'd been rattled ever since Quinn had taken him up to see him. On one hand, he was glad he finally got to see him…on the other, he looked so awful that he hadn't been able to get him out of his thoughts.

Sometimes, when he stopped and cleared his mind and thought as hard as he could, he could almost, sort of, kind of remember the accident. There weren't any concrete details- just fuzzy reminders of metal and rain and screaming.

"Finn?"

He blinked a couple of times. His mother was staring at him. "Honey, are you okay?" she asked.

"I'm fine," he said.

She relaxed. "Well, we're home," she said.

He looked out the window, realizing that the station wagon was parked in the driveway of the Hummel's house. His mom got out of the driver's seat and helped him out. "Can you make it up the steps?" she asked.

"Uh, yeah, I'll be fine," he said. He leaned on her shoulder as she walked him slowly up the driveway. It was great to be out of the car- it made him feel better, somehow, to stumble around on his own feet and not feel hemmed in by a seatbelt.

"Welcome home, Finn," his mom said, smiling brightly as she brought him into the front door.

He grinned. "Yay," he said, plunking down on the couch.

"I think I have your Xbox set up right," she said, tucking a blanket around him. "I have the TV remote right here, and I can put in whatever movie you like. And it's lunchtime, do you want something to eat?"

"Anything but jello," he said. "I used to like that stuff…but I think that's the only dessert the hospital knows how to make."

She laughed softly and sat down beside him. He flashed his lopsided grin up at his mother as she smoothed his hair back. "I'm so glad you're all right," she said. "I don't know what I would do if I lost you."

He ducked his head. "So the glee club's visiting after school?" he said, clearing his throat and attempting to hide the blush that spread across his cheeks and up to his ears.

"Mm-hm," she said, rearranging his pillows behind his back. "They promised they would come first thing."

"Where's Burt?" he asked.

He regretted the question as soon as he asked it. Carole's smile faded slightly. "Either the garage or the hospital," she said. "Probably the hospital. He's really worried over Kurt."

Finn nodded. "Oh," he said lamely.

Carole patted him on the knee. "You sit here and watch TV, and I'll go get you some lunch," she said.

"Okay," he said, switching on the television. He flipped channels aimlessly, but he couldn't exactly focus.

* * *

He never quite adjusted to entering his son's hospital room. Every time he braced himself for the sickeningly-sweet smell of antiseptic and the beeping of machines and the sight of his child, pale and bandaged, and every time it broke him.

Burt approached his sleeping (_just sleeping_) son's bed slowly. Kurt breathed evenly, shallowly. "Hey, kiddo," he said, doing his best to keep his voice normal. "It's your dad."

He set the box he was carrying down beside the bed and took his son's hand. His skin was slightly bruised around the IV plugged into his arm. Burt squeezed his limp fingers, hoping for a response.

Nothing.

He sat beside Kurt's bed, talking quietly. No matter how gentle he tried to make his voice, it still sounded too loud. But he kept going, talking about foolish things. The cars he'd been working on. The movie he watched on TV last night. What Carole made for dinner.

"Finn's doing better," he said, rubbing his thumb over Kurt's knuckles. "They brought him home a couple of days ago. He can go back to school next week."

Kurt didn't answer. He just kept breathing, slow and labored.

"He still doesn't remember what happened," he said. "That hit on the head he got…it was pretty bad. But I hope he remembers soon. I have to know what happened to you."

Burt cleared his throat and held Kurt's hand in both of his. "Do you remember when your mom was here?" he said. "She spent a whole month in the hospital. It really broke you up. And you were so little…you kept saying that Mom was going to be homesick. You kept bringing her little things- your toys and drawings and stuff. She loved it. She was so sick, but every time you brought her something from home, she would just laugh."

He opened the box on the nightstand and pulled out a small stereo. "Finn's girlfriend had everyone pick out songs for you," he said. "I know you and Rach aren't really best friends, but she wanted to do this."

He plugged it in and turned it on, keeping the volume down low. The CD played softly, some piano tune he didn't recognize but he guessed that Kurt did. He reached into the box and picked up a folded blanket. Carefully he shook it open and tucked it around his son.

"I thought you were going to sleep with this until you were thirty-five," he said. "I could never get you to put it down. Your mom would just laugh and say you'd outgrow it when you were ready."

He brushed the soft fabric lightly against Kurt's arm. That baby blanket had been the bane of his existence for forever. Kurt couldn't sleep without it when he was little, he couldn't even go around the house without it trailing behind him. It was embarrassing. Then his mother died…and Burt wasn't about to take it away from him. It was the only thing that could comfort him.

Eventually he stopped carrying it…eventually he stopped sleeping with it. It had been folded up in a box with the rest of his baby things for a couple of years. But it seemed like…well, like he could use it again. It was like home.

Burt pulled the last item out of the box. "I know you think I don't know about this, but I know when you play around with your mom's old dresser," he said. He sort of smiled to himself. "You were three when you broke her bottle of perfume and it dripped all over it. At first, I was kind of upset about it, but now that old thing still smells like her."

He pulled the cap off the bottle of perfume. It was a small rectangular bottle, with a silver bow on top. Burt pressed the top carefully, and the air filled with the familiar scent of strawberries and caramel popcorn and a million other things that he could never identify, but he always associated with his wife.

"You're going to get better, kid," he whispered. "You've got to get better, or I…I…"

He broke off in midsentence. Eight years ago he watched his wife fade away, getting thinner and paler until she fell asleep and just never woke up. It was like history repeating, except this was worse. A thousand times worse.

A father should never have to think about burying his child.

He sank into the chair, staring at his little boy, wondering what he should do. Part of him felt like he ought to pray, but…well, even when his wife was alive and made him go to church, he had never been much of a praying man.

And now, looking at his son, thin and pale and bandaged, he almost felt like he couldn't pray. So he did the next best thing.

"Mollie," he said softly. "Mollie, you'd better be looking out for him, okay?"

He reached over and took Kurt's hand, cupping his cold fingers in his big, warm, callused ones. "Bring him back to me. And if…if he can't come back…well, just make sure he doesn't go it alone."

He sat beside his son for a long time, until the CD reached the end and started up again, until night fell and the nurses made him leave, because visiting hours were over an hour ago.

* * *

Rachel dropped her backpack by the front door and ran to him. "You look so much better!" she exclaimed, plopping down beside him on the couch and wrapping her arms around him.

"I feel better," Finn said. "That whole dizziness thing is almost gone."

She pulled back, her arms still around his neck, and beamed happily. "And if the weekend goes well, you'll be back at school on Monday, right?" she asked.

"Yeah, I had a checkup this morning and they said I was doing pretty good," he said. "I'm getting pretty tired of sitting around on this couch."

"Well, don't force yourself," she said, brushing her hand through his hair. "Now, I brought all your homework for you. Do you want to get started on it now, or do you want to do something fun first?"

He sat up a little. "Like make out?"

She frowned. "Like watch a movie," she said. "I told you, kissing is fine, but I don't want to do _anything _that might get your heart rate up too high until I'm sure you're better."

Finn slunk back, frowning. "A movie's fine," he grumbled.

She slid off the couch and poked through the DVDs on the shelf. "What are you in the mood for?" she asked. "A drama…a romance…"

He sighed. "I've watched all of the action flicks like ten times over," he said. "And I don't know if I could watch a drama, or a romance. I'll probably fall asleep."

She flashed her million-watt smile. "How about something fun, then?" she said. She pulled a DVD off the shelf and waved it at him. "Everyone likes Finding Nemo. And I haven't seen it in forever."

He shrugged. "Sure, why not?" he said. Rachel popped it in the DVD player and settled down beside him to watch it. He lifted his blanket and she snuggled beside him, tucking her head against his shoulder.

He'd seen the movie before, but not in a long time. Like, a really long time. He'd seen it a couple of times as a kid, but it had been a while. It was a nice change of pace from shoot-'em-up video games and buddy cop movies.

Rachel nestled against him, warm and soft and smelling like shampoo and maybe, just faintly, a hint of grape slushie. He ran his fingers lazily through her dark, silky hair.

He wasn't exactly sure when Burt walked in. All he knew was that he glanced up, and there he was, sitting in the armchair, unsmiling, his eyes trained on the screen. Finn shifted awkwardly. There was something unsettling about Burt's facial expression, and he didn't like it, or know what to do about it.

It was pretty dark outside by the time the movie finished. His stomach was rumbling, and he could hear his mother making dinner in the kitchen. Rachel unfolded herself from the couch and crossed over to the DVD player, halting the credits. "I'd forgotten how much I liked that movie," she said. She turned to put the disc in the case and paused. "Have you ever seen it, Mr. Hummel? I figured it was Kurt's."

Burt sort of smiled. "I've seen it," he said. "Probably a million times."

Rachel balanced the DVD in her hands. "Is it one of Kurt's favorites?" she asked hesitantly.

"I took him to see it when it came out," he said. "He was ten, I think, and it was the last day of school, so I figured I'd do something special."

He crossed his arms across his chest and stared at the blank television screen, as if he could see something else no one else could see. "All the other kids were laughing, and Kurt just kept leaning closer and closer to me until there he is, sitting on my lap. When it was over I just looked at him and asked him why he was so upset."

Burt took a deep breath. "And he kept his eyes down and said, 'Dad, they're just like us.'"

Finn frowned. He didn't quite see how Kurt could compare himself to a lost, one-finned little fish.

"It took me a minute, and then I realized what he was getting at. It was just this dad and his kid, without a mom, and his kid was different from all the other kids." Burt pulled off his baseball cap and ran his hand over his head. "I must've taken him to see it about twelve times that summer."

Finn looked down, staring at the woven pattern of his blanket. He really couldn't think of anything to say.

Carole walked into the living room, interrupting the silence. "Burt, your phone's ringing," she said.

He shook his head, replacing his baseball cap. "Let it go to voicemail," he said gruffly.

She held it out. "You need to answer it," she said. "It's the hospital."

* * *

He stared down at his son. "What happened?" he demanded.

"Mr. Hummel, your son stopped breathing," the doctor explained. "The injuries he sustained to his chest caused internal bleeding. We were able to staunch it when he was brought in, but the damage was extensive."

Burt only sort of listened to the doctor. He couldn't tear his eyes away from Kurt.

"One of his lungs deflated. We were able to repair it quickly, but he did stop breathing for a while. We've put him on a ventilator for the time being."

"How long?" he asked.

"Until we're sure he's stable," the doctor said. "It could be a day or two, or it could be weeks."

The ventilator made an unholy racket, clicking and whirring as it pumped air into his son's lungs. The tubes ran from the machine into his mouth and down his throat, making his pale, graying lips gap slightly open.

Burt was suddenly glad that Kurt was unconscious. He would be miserable if he was awake, with tubing stuffed down his throat and that machine drowning out all other sounds.

He sat down on the edge of Kurt's bed, trying to stifle his unbearable need to pull his child into his arms. Kurt shouldn't be moved, he needed to lie still and recover.

Burt bent over him, pressing his cheek against his son's smooth, cold one. "You're going to be okay," he whispered in his ear, speaking over the dull roar of the ventilator. "It's okay. Daddy's here. Daddy's got you."

Kurt didn't move. Burt stayed by him, leaning close in his attempted half-hug. This time, no one mentioned anything about visiting hours.

* * *

Finn swallowed his pain meds, chasing them with a sip of Gatorade. Carole sat next to him on the couch, rubbing her thumb against his cheek. "Mom, don't look at me like that," he said. "I'm fine."

"I know," she said. "I know you're fine, but I just can't stop thinking about Kurt."

"Has he gotten any better?" he asked.

She shook her head. "He's been on the ventilator since last night, and they don't want to take him off it until they're sure he can breathe on his own," she said.

He stared down at the floor. "I wish I could remember what happened," he said, probably for the millionth time.

"Honey, I'm sure your memory will come back eventually," she reassured him. She pulled the blankets around his shoulders. "You should go to sleep. Your pills will be kicking in soon."

She leaned over and kissed him on the forehead, then turned off the lights. "'Night, Mom," he said.

"Goodnight, baby," she said. "Sweet dreams."

He flopped back on the couch as he heard his mother leave and walk upstairs. The living room was unbearably creepy at night, but they wouldn't let him sleep in his own bed yet. Too many stairs, his mom kept saying.

Finn slid off the couch, setting his bare feet carefully on the floor, and stood up slowly. His head didn't really hurt, and he didn't feel all that dizzy, either. Those pain meds were pretty awesome.

He made his way carefully across the darkened living room to the basement door, still somewhat unsteady on his feet. The door opened easily, without a giveaway creak, and he turned on the light and put his hand on the railing.

The steps were freezing cold under his feet, but he couldn't pick up his pace, really. He kept walking, slow and steady, one step at a time, until he was in the middle of the bedroom he shared with Kurt. He turned on the lights, and suddenly realized why his mom didn't want him going down there just yet.

Everything reminded him of Kurt. His clothes hanging neatly in the closet, his neatly made and unoccupied bed, his perfectly arranged books on his desk. The room hadn't been touched since the day of the accident, when they left for school in the morning and then didn't come back. It was eerie, almost unsettling.

Finn walked heavily to Kurt's bed and sat down. The smooth satin comforter- unlike his sturdy plaid cotton one- felt silky and cool under his hands. He pulled the blankets and sheets back.

He felt kind of like a creeper. Curling up on Kurt's bed didn't really seem like the manly thing to do. But the sheets were soft and warm, and the pillow looked so inviting.

He lowered himself slowly into the bed and pulled the blankets up around his shoulders. Kurt's bed was definitely more comfortable than his; he had to ask him where he got his stuff.

That is, if he ever got the chance to remember.

He rolled onto his back, the blankets still pulled up around his shoulders, and stared up at the ceiling. He'd gone through countless nights like this, on the other side of the room, lost in his own little world of football plays and cute girls and song lyrics, falling asleep to the sound of Kurt's steady breathing.

Finn huddled under the covers. He could breathe in the scent of shampoo and aloe and that stupid, good-smelling cologne that Kurt always insisted on wearing, and it made his chest ache, like someone was sitting on him and refusing to let him breathe.

His eyes stung. He closed them tightly and tried to remember, did everything in his power to bring back the series of events that had escaped his mind.

"I need to remember, I need to remember, I need to remember," he mumbled aloud, his voice echoing in the darkness. He pulled the covers around him tighter and closed his eyes tightly and the pain medication kicked in while he was still in mid-sentence, sending him into deep sleep before he quite knew what was going on.

That night, Finn dreamed of the accident.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

Cliffhanger! Augh!

Yeah, I totally did that on purpose. The next chapter you (and Finn) will finally learn what happened in the accident!

I don't really know how the Finding Nemo thing came about. But isn't it perfect? The overprotective daddy, the adorable little kid who's different from everybody else...well, I thought it was cute.

The perfume that Kurt's mother wore is Miss Dior Cherie. I have some of it and it's absolutely amazing. It's a very sweet, warm, charming sort of scent. And it definitely smells like strawberries and caramel popcorn.

I hope you like this chapter! Let me know what you think...and tell me what _you _think happened in the accident!


	5. Fear Is the Heart of Love

Disclaimer: Glee belongs to Ryan Murphy and Fox, not me.

* * *

_In Catholic school, as vicious as Roman rule_

_I got my knuckles bruised by a lady in black_

_And I held my tongue as she told me,_

_"Son, fear is the heart of love."_

_So I never went back_

It had been raining all day. Not a nice, peaceful, steady drizzle, but pouring buckets, pounding on roofs and roads mercilessly. The sky had been a sickly greenish-yellowish navy all day, except when lightning cracked and turned everything white for a split second.

Finn left his last class of the day and loped down the hall to his locker. For once he was glad that he didn't have football. Football practice would mean running around in the slick grass, soaking his uniform until water dribbled down to his boxers.

At least it was glee rehearsal. Glee meant he could stay warm and dry until four-thirty, and maybe by then the rain would have let up.

He shoved his books into his locker and slammed it shut. Puck punched him lightly on the shoulder as he walked by. "You going to rehearsal?" he said.

"Yeah. You?"

Puck shrugged. "I might skip," he said.

"Mr. Schue just gave you a solo," he objected. "What, you want me to take it?"

Puck scowled. "Never mind, I'm coming," he said. "Let me stop by the locker room first, though. Forgot to grab my crap after gym."

Finn shrugged and followed him. Mr. Schue probably wouldn't care if they were a few minutes late. Everybody was usually engaged in a rousing jam session in the first ten minutes or so of rehearsal time anyways.

Puck pushed the locker room door open. Finn moved to let it slam shut, but Puck suddenly grabbed it and pressed his index finger to his lip. He scowled, but kept his mouth shut.

"So tell me, fairy, how much money could I get for this jacket?"

"It's an Alexander McQueen. And he's dead now, so you should get a lot."

"Take it off, then. I want it."

Puck crept into the room and hid behind a row of lockers. Finn stayed close behind. There was only one person in the school who could possibly know, care about, or own designer clothes. And that was Kurt.

"What about the shirt, fag? That valuable?"

"No, not really. It's…it's just a tee shirt."

"What about your pants?"

He heard Kurt hesitate. "You really want my pants?"

"Hey, I can't afford new rims for my pickup without a little extra cash. So how about the pants?"

Kurt made a small _oof _sound; it was almost like someone had picked him up and surprised him. "Tag says Marc Jacobs. That any good?"

"Yeah, my girlfriend's got some of his perfume. Take off the pants."

"I'd rather not."

"What, too shy to change around a guy? I thought that's what you liked."

"He's got to like it. Want us to take your pants off for you, fag?"

There was a soft thunk and a hard rattling sound, like something getting slammed into a locker. Kurt's voice echoed in the mostly-empty room, high-pitched and strangled. "Get off me!"

Puck lunged on one side, Finn on the other. Karofsky had pinned Kurt to the lockers, the side of his head pressed hard against the ventilation slats. Azimio had his hands on the front of Kurt's pants and he fumbled with the button and zipper.

"Let him go," Puck growled.

Startled, Azimio backed up as Puck shoved him aside. Karofsky let go of Kurt, letting him slump down against the metal walls. Finn grabbed him before he fell.

"You want a piece of the action, Puckerman?" Azimio growled.

"I just think a loser who has to steal another kid's clothes to buy crap is a complete jackass," Puck said. "Be a man, get a job."

Finn wrapped his arms around Kurt's shoulders and hunched over him protectively. Kurt's back was pressed against his chest; he could feel his ribs heaving for air.

"The fag's clothes could cover my next car payment," Karofsky said.

"Stop calling him that," Finn snapped.

Puck shoved Azimio. "Dude, slushies and dumpsters dives are one thing," he said. "Stealing his stuff? That could get your suspended."

"Or expelled," Kurt added through his gritted teeth.

Karofsky lunged towards him, but Puck shoved him back. "You're late for hockey practice," he said. "Coach'll kill you."

Azimio grabbed Karofsky by the shoulder. "Let's go," he said, his voice low. "Let's leave Puckerman and Hudson to their sexy threesome with the little fairy."

"Shut up!" Finn said.

"This ain't over," Karofsky said, as Azimio dragged him away. "You can count on it, fag."

The locker room door slammed shut. Finn heaved a sigh of relief and let go of Kurt, who staggered to the bench and sat down hard, his shoulders slumped.

"You okay, Hummel?" Puck asked.

"Perfect," Kurt wheezed. His hair flopped messily over his forehead, and he looked thinner than usual in his plain white tee shirt. Something dark trickled down the back of his slender neck.

Finn reached out and touched the stain. "Kurt, you're bleeding," he said. He showed Kurt the red on his fingers.

He reached up and touched the back of his head gingerly. "Lockers are sharper than they look," he commented.

Puck rummaged in his locker, pulled out a towel and tossed it at him. "Don't give me that look, Hummel, it's clean," he said. Kurt pressed it against the back of his head.

"You still up for glee rehearsal, or do you want to go home?" Finn asked.

"It's just a scratch, Finn, I'll be fine," he sighed. He pulled the towel away and looked at the red splotch. "See? It already stopped bleeding."

Puck put his big hand over Kurt's and moved the towel back to his head. "Don't rush it," he said.

"What a fantastic bedside manner you have, Noah," Kurt remarked dryly.

Puck pulled his stuff out of his locker and tossed it haphazardly into his duffle bag. "Don't count on my niceness going any farther than this," he warned. "They just went too far. Dumpster tossing has its place. It's for keeping insurgent dorks in line. Stealing crap and selling it? That's too far."

"Says the dude who tried to steal the glee club bake sale money last year," Finn said.

Puck held up a warning hand. "That was last year," he said. "I'm a kinder, gentler bully now."

"Fabulous," Kurt said. He lifted the towel from his head wound again. "Seriously, it stopped bleeding. I barely got bumped."

He dropped the towel and stood up. His pants were unfastened and had slid partway down his hips, exposing the top of his dark blue boxers. He pulled them back up around his hips and fastened them, keeping his head down. "You sure you're okay?" Finn asked.

Kurt looked up. His face was pale, but his cheeks were flushed. "I'm fine," he said, lifting his chin. "Do you mind handing me my jacket?"

Finn handed it over wordlessly. Kurt shrugged into the sleeves and buttoned it up to his neck. It was funny, but once he was dressed in his designer coat, he seemed more sure of himself, less vulnerable. He picked up his messenger bag, set it on his shoulder, and looked at them expectantly.

"Well?" he said. "Aren't you coming?"

Finn and Puck exchanged looks over his head. "Uh…sure," Finn said.

They left the locker room and walked down the hall to the rehearsal room. Kurt walked a few steps ahead of them, his head held high, his hips swinging. Finn sighed. As much as he cared about his almost-stepbrother, he couldn't understand him to save his life.

He just hoped that he never had to be in a position to save Kurt's life, because Kurt would probably too proud to ask for help until it was too late.

Despite his previous best guess, glee rehearsal had already started by the time they got there. Rachel scowled from her traditional front-row seat. "Hey, guys," Mr. Schue said mildly. "You're kind of late."

"Yeah, well, Kurt-" Puck started to say.

Kurt breezed past him to sit by Mercedes. "I narrowly avoided a slushie in the south hall," he lied. "We had to take the long way."

Mr. Schue gave them a funny look. "Well, we already got started, so catch up fast, okay?" he said.

Finn sat down next to Rachel and picked up his sheet music. "Where were you?" she whispered loudly.

"You know…slushies," he mumbled as the piano intro started.

"You're not a very good liar, Finn Hudson."

Luckily, the song began with a solo for Rachel, and she was quickly diverted from her anger by a chance to perform. He sank back in his chair, relieved, and sang with the rest of the group.

But the singing part of rehearsal only lasted for the first half. They had to dance, too. It was his least favorite part of glee, learning new steps and trying to stumble his way through them without looking too idiotic.

"Five, six, seven, eight," Mr. Schue counted. "One, two, clap, step. Three, four, clap, step."

Finn fumbled around, trying to not stomp all over Rachel's small feet with his ski-sized shoes. _Everyone else can pick this stuff up, why not me? _he sulked as he spun in the wrong direction for the umpteenth time.

They were halfway through the combination when Kurt stopped suddenly. He swayed on his feet for a moment before taking a hesitant step, trying to get back into the choreography, and he collided with Quinn.

She grabbed him by the arm before they could both fall over. "What was that for?" she asked as the music halted and they all stopped to stare. She gave him an odd look. "Are you okay?"

"I have a headache," he said, frowning. "Wow. Yikes." He shook his head slowly. "Sorry. I didn't mean to mess everybody else up."

"It's okay," Mr. Schue said. "Do you want to sit down?"

Quinn patted him on the back. "I have some Tylenol," she offered.

"That would be great," Kurt said.

"How about we take five, everybody?" Mr. Schue said.

"Thank you, five," they chorused. Mercedes dragged Kurt to a chair and forced him to sit while Quinn rummaged in her purse for the bottle of pills.

Rachel took Finn by the hand and tugged him over to the piano. "I think you've been singing the wrong line," she said. "See, in measure 41, you ought to be singing the baritone harmony line, but I think you've been singing the tenor melody. Here, try this."

He glanced over his shoulder. Kurt took the pills Quinn offered without water; Mercedes squeezed his arm and Brittany stroked the top of his head. He submitted to their maternal fussing without dissent.

"Finn! Focus!"

He turned back to Rachel and automatically sang the line she played. She beamed. "See? Perfect," she said. "You're doing so well."

Mr. Schue clapped for their attention. "Okay, let's try this again," he said.

The rest of rehearsal passed without incident. Finn tried to watch Kurt as much as he could, while still concentrating on his dance steps. He wasn't very successful at either, but at least it didn't seem like Kurt was struggling to keep up.

The clock struck four-thirty, and the glee club split up to go home. Rachel kept up with Finn's long strides down the hall, jabbering a mile a minute. He glanced back at Kurt, way at the end of the group, walking slowly.

"Hey, Rachel," he interrupted. "Thanks for offering me a ride home, but can I check with Kurt first? I might hitch a ride home with him."

"Okay," she said, rising up on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek. "I'll wait for you in my car. Text me if you're getting a ride from him, okay?"

"Sure," he said. She pulled the hood of her raincoat over her head and dashed into the pouring rain to her car. Finn waited at the back doors for Kurt to catch up.

"Waiting for anyone in particular, Finn Hudson?" Kurt asked.

"I was just wondering if you wanted me to go home with you," Finn said. "I mean, it's raining hard, and with you…"

"Having a headache," Kurt said quietly.

"Yeah, that. I was wondering if you needed somebody to go with you," Finn said.

He didn't expect him to answer, but Kurt glanced through the window at the driving rain and bit his lip. "If you're sure you don't mind," he said tentatively. "My dad doesn't like other people driving my car, but my headache's pretty bad. And Tylenol makes me sleepy."

Finn grinned. "That makes you sleepy? What a lightweight," he said.

Kurt rolled his eyes. "Thanks so much," he said. He pulled the keys to his compact SUV out of his pocket. "Here. You'd better be careful with my baby."

"I will, I will," Finn promised. He opened the back doors; the sound of the rain amplified. "Let's go!"

They ran through the heavy rain, skidding through puddles until they reached the car and yanked the doors open. Finn tossed his backpack in the back seat and slammed the door behind him. Kurt sank into the passenger seat, patting the upholstery. "I'm sorry for getting you wet, baby," he said.

"It'll be fine, Kurt, you haven't hurt its feelings," Finn said. He turned the key and revved the engine. Kurt fished in his bag for his iPod and plugged it into the jack.

"Drive carefully," Kurt warned. "If anything happens to this car I will die. Just die."

"No, you won't," Finn said, rolling his eyes. He navigated the car carefully through the rain, the wipers flipping back and forth wildly. He rolled up to the intersection of Terrence Street and Taylor Mill Road and stopped for the light. "Crap. I forgot to text Rachel. Can I borrow your phone?"

Kurt reclined his seat. "Get your own," he said.

"But it's somewhere in my bag and I can't get to it," Finn protested. "Let me borrow yours. Please?"

"Fine," Kurt grumbled. He pulled his phone out of his jacket pocket and handed it over. "First you borrow my car, now my phone. What next? My undershorts?"

"Um, never," Finn said. He jabbed at the touch screen, trying to type out the message.

"Light's green," Kurt said sleepily.

"Aw, crap," Finn grumbled. He shoved the phone into the front pocket of his sweatshirt and turned a hard left. The iPod dropped off Kurt's seat and slid underneath, the cord tangling in the gearshift. The music started alternating between blaring and static.

"Finn," Kurt whined. "What did you do that for?"

"Sorry, I didn't mean too," Finn said, squinting into the dark. He tried turning the brights on, but it only made things worse.

"It's going to destroy the headphone jack," Kurt said.

"I can't get it, I'm trying to drive," Finn said.

Kurt huffed loudly. "Fine," he said. He sat up and unbuckled his seatbelt.

"Dude, you think that's a good idea?" Finn asked.

"It's only for a second."

Kurt leaned into the backseat over the center console and tried to reach under his seat for the iPod. Finn glanced into the rearview mirror just into time to see the wildly flashing headlights of the swerving vehicle behind them get closer and closer and brighter and brighter until-

He swore loudly and turned a hard left, but his reflexes weren't quite fast enough.

Tires squealed. Metal crunched. Glass shattered. Someone screamed.

One minute he was driving through the rain. The next he was raising his head slowly, his neck and forehead aching. His fingers cramped; he unfolded them slowly. Steady rain, cold and wet, dripped onto his back.

His vision blurred and he rubbed languidly at his eyes. It was dark, really dark, but two bright light shone in front of him. Headlights. He sat up, and his chest suddenly ached sharply, as if he was going to break apart.

Something pulled him back. His hands, slippery from rainwater, slid on the clasp of his seatbelt before he could muster the muscle control to press it. But it gave way and he lost his balance, realizing with a start that he was tilted downwards.

Something pounded on the window. He fell back, startled, as the face of a hysterical woman appeared beside him, frantic and ghostlike. She shouted something at him about ambulances and emergencies. He folded his arms on the steering wheel and pressed his left cheek to his forearms. He was tired, so tired. But as his eyes started to close, he glanced over at the passenger seat.

It was empty.

Big droplets of blood stained the upholstery, already dark and sagging with rainwater. Shards of glass sparkled over the dashboard like demonic confetti. His eyes traveled from the glass to the dash to the gaping hole in the windshield, and suddenly the pieces fell in place.

"Kurt," he mumbled.

He grabbed at the door handle, his fingers slipping, until it dropped open and he fell hard into the rain-slick grass. His head spun wildly as he stumbled to his feet.

"Kurt," he shouted hoarsely. "Kurt!"

He skidded across the grass in the shade of the tree, rain pelting his face and running down his back. The ground sloped upwards; he fell on his hands and knees, searching for a foothold. He stretched out a hand and gripped something firm and wet and still faintly warm.

His eyes traveled up, and he stared at Kurt, unable to speak.

Kurt was crumpled against the tree, splayed out like a discarded rag doll. His eyes were closed and he was completely still. Something dark covered his face and hair; he couldn't tell if it was rainwater or blood or both.

Finn fumbled with the buttons on the front of Kurt's jacket and pulled it apart. His thin white tee shirt was completely drenched, and several strange bumps stood out on his chest. Kurt opened his mouth and sucked in a deep, gasping breath. The sudden movement made the bumps move. One of them made a sickening crack, and something dark and red blossomed across the front of his shirt.

Kurt let out a slow moan. Finn held his hands over his chest, shaking, unable to focus his thoughts enough to remember what to do. "Kurt," he mumbled. "Y'okay?"

Kurt's eyes opened slowly, ocean-blue and dazed. He opened his mouth, trying to answer. "Hurts," he whispered.

He choked suddenly. Blood dripped out of the corner of his mouth. That was bad, it had to be bad.

"Finn," he rasped. "Finn, I can't-"

Kurt seized up, blood running slickly over his teeth and his lips and his chin. Finn cupped his face in his hands. "It's okay," he said. "It's okay, it's okay, it's okay."

Kurt's eyes rolled back and he slumped hard into the wet grass, falling limply. Finn tried to hold him, but grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him up.

Finn stared into the revolving blue and red lights of emergency vehicles. Sirens blared noisily. "It's going to be all right," the EMT said, forcing him to lie down. "We're going to get you two to a hospital."

"'m fine, 'm fine," Finn mumbled. He twisted, trying to see Kurt. Flashlights danced back and forth in the darkness, the rain making strobe effects.

The EMT checked him for injuries, brisk and professional. "Can you tell me your name?" he asked, his voice mild and pleasant, as if he was sitting down for lunch with him instead of hunching over him in a ditch.

He couldn't answer. Several EMTs were working over Kurt, rearranging his broken body. His breathing came hard and fast as the EMT checked his pulse.

Someone knelt down beside him, a big man with a shiny badge. "Son, I'm Officer Riley," he said. "You've been in an accident. Can you tell me your name?"

"I think he's going into shock," the EMT said. "Here, I found a phone in his pocket."

The police officer picked up Kurt's smartphone and scrolled through the contacts, the tiny screen shining like a nightlight. "There's a number for Dad listed on the speed dial," he said. "Just hang on, son. We'll call your dad and he can meet us at the hospital."

Finn tried to work his vocal cords, tried to explain that no, it wasn't his phone and it wasn't his dad and that Kurt had to be okay, he _needed _to be okay. But he was so tired, so incredibly tired.

He glanced back towards Kurt. The paramedics had lifted him on to a gurney and strapped an oxygen mask over his face; he looked smaller and thinner and paler than he had ever been before.

Finn slumped back, still trying to speak, and everything went black.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

And know we know what happened!

I'm afraid it's rather anticlimatic. I dabbled with a couple of different ideas, trying to make it more extreme- and I got some really good suggestions!- but nothing seemed to really work but this.

It's interesting to write Puck. This story is the first time I've done anything with him, and it's intriguing. I might have to write more about him...

And this is slightly off-topic, but if a director or stage manager tells the cast and crew to take five, everyone has to answer "thank you, five." The things you learn from theater!

So...in any case...let me know what you think. And I've considered expanding this further, so if you're interested, drop a line!


	6. The Time for Sleep is Now

Disclaimer: Glee belongs to Ryan Murphy and Fox, not me.

* * *

_You and me have seen everything to see_

_From Bangkok to Calgary_

_And the soles of your shoes are all worn down_

_The time for sleep is now_

_It's nothing to cry about_

_'Cause we'll hold each other soon_

_In the blackest of rooms_

He kept looking over his shoulder at the ever-approaching darkness. She had told him not to, but he just couldn't help it. It loomed closer and closer, stretching towards him like it was going to swallow him up.

She tugged on his hand. "I told you not to look," she said gently.

"What is it?" he asked for the millionth time.

"Don't worry about it, honey," she said.

He studied her. There was something familiar about her- about the stubborn lift of her chin, the upturned tilt of her nose, the ocean-blue color of her eyes. "Why won't you tell me who you are?" he asked.

She shrugged. "It's not time yet," she said.

"And where are you taking me?" he persisted. "Why are you here?"

She smiled and tucked a long lock of silky hair behind her ear. "I'm here because he asked me to," she said.

He frowned. "Who?"

"You'll know, in time," she said. She squeezed her hand, and he kept walking beside her.

* * *

Someone was screaming, loud and hoarse. He didn't know where it was coming from, and he was terrified.

A light flicked on and someone grabbed him by the shoulders. "Finn, it's okay, you're having a nightmare," his mom said. "Honey, it's okay. Calm down."

He curled up in his mother's arms, sobbing like he was six instead of sixteen. Carole stroked his hair and made soft shushing noises, trying to calm him down. "I remember, I remember," he sobbed.

"Calm down, sweetheart," she soothed. "Tell me if you can."

He choked the story out, slowly and painfully- the jerks in the locker room, the dismal glee rehearsal, the drive home, the accident. "Kurt looked dead, Mom," he said, his voice reduced to a raspy whisper. "He was…he bled everywhere. It was awful."

She rubbed the back of his neck. "Honey, are you sure about this?" she said gently. "You just had a nightmare. Maybe you just dreamed it."

He shook his head violently, bringing back his headache full-force. "No, no, it happened," he insisted. He pulled away from his mother and stumbled towards Kurt's desk. It was untouched except for the clear plastic bag from the hospital. He tore it open, picking up the torn, bloodied remains of the clothing Kurt had worn the day of the accident and tossed them aside.

"Baby, calm down," Carole said.

He shook his head as his hand closed around the slick surface of Kurt's phone. "I didn't dream it," he persisted. Shaking, he plugged the phone into the charger on his desk and waited for it to wake up. As soon as it reached the home screen he scrolled through the message drafts

_Rach its f goin wit k ill call u wen_

He seized the phone and showed his mother the unfinished, unsent message triumphantly. "See?" he said. "I didn't dream it. It happened."

She covered her mouth with her hands. "Oh, honey," she said. "Did they really do that to Kurt?"

He nodded. "He's got…he's got those cuts on his head," he said, his train of thought slowly unraveling between exhaustion and pain. "You should tell them to check. If they check, they'll know I'm right." He wavered and gripped the back of the chair to keep his balance.

Carole got up and put her arm around his waist. "Go back to bed, sweetheart," she said. She started to lead him towards his half of the room, but he stopped and shook his head.

"I want to sleep in Kurt's," he said. "It's just…it's nice, you know? It's like…like he's back."

She made that funny facial expression she always had when she was going to cry but didn't want him to see; her mouth turned into a strange, compressed smile. "I know," she whispered.

She walked him over to the bed and he curled up under the covers, relaxing into the softness of the mattress as his mother tucked him like she did when he was a child. "Go to sleep, honey," she said. She kissed him on the forehead. "Have good dreams, okay?"

He nodded, already beginning to succumb to the sleep tugging on the edges of his vision. His mother turned off the light and he burrowed into his brother's bed, still replaying the vivid dream in his mind and wishing it hadn't really happened.

* * *

Carole wasn't exactly sure of what she would do. So she stood a little ways back, letting Burt and the doctor worry. She wasn't his mother, anyway.

The doctor slid her hand under Kurt's head. She looked too young to be a doctor, with her long hair tied back in a ponytail and the faint hint of gloss on her lips, but she seemed very calm and sure of herself. "We checked those cuts when he came in, but we assumed it was from the accident. If you lift him, I can take another look."

Burt put his arms under Kurt's shoulders and raised him up carefully. His hand supported the back of his thin neck. The young doctor checked over the back of his head, brushing his hair out of the way. "He has three horizontal cuts," she said. "They could have come from a locker door."

Burt leaned his son back against the pillows. The ventilator kept up its rattle, steady and awful. "If he was already injured prior the accident, it could explain why he's having so much trouble recovering from his comatose state," the doctor said. "From what the boy's brother said, your son probably had a mild concussion already. The injuries from the car accident compounded the trauma his body was already dealing with."

Burt kept his hand on Kurt's shoulder. "When do you think he'll wake up?" he asked.

"I'm not sure," the doctor said. "He's fighting this, we can tell that much. But his injuries were severe. He went into shock in the ambulance when they brought him in from the accident, and he can't breathe on his own."

"But he can get past that, right?" Burt said.

The doctor took a deep breath. "Possibly, yes," she said. "If Kurt can breathe on his own again and we can take him off the ventilator within in the next week or so, I would say that his chances of recovery will improve drastically. But if he can't…I think it might be best if you…made plans."

Carole's heart skipped a beat. She looked from the doctor, young and pretty and apologetic with her hands in her pockets, to Burt, who held onto his son's hand like his life depended on it. And in a way, she supposed, it did.

"I'm very sorry," the young doctor said. She seemed like she honestly meant it. "I have some information I can give you, if you think you need it."

"It's okay," Burt said hoarsely. "I already buried his mother."

The doctor bit her lip. "I really am sorry," she said. "I'll keep a close eye on his condition. I really hope he pulls through."

"Me too," Burt whispered. The young doctor left quietly. Carole stood a little ways apart, trying to think of something to say.

Burt let go of Kurt's hand, placing it gently on his stomach. He reached out like he was going to touch his cheek, then pulled back. "I can't do this," he said, his voice cracking. "Not now." He left abruptly, not looking behind for a last glance or even to acknowledge Carole. She watched him go until he disappeared down the hall. The ventilator kept up its painful sounds.

She sat down carefully on the edge of Kurt's bed. "Hi, honey," she said gently. She put her hand on top of his, taking care to not jostle the IV taped to the back of his hand. "It's Carole."

She knew he was sixteen, she knew he was almost grown up. He always seemed older than his age, always poised and mature and clever. But he didn't look grown up to her right now.

"I don't know if you ever hear us when we talk to you," she said. "I hope you can." She smoothed his hair away from his cold forehead. "Honey, you have to get better. I don't think your dad will be able to take it if he loses you too."

The steady, metallic gusts of the ventilator provided her only answer. Kurt looked small and young and horribly vulnerable, lost in the bleached sheets and medical machinery. He might not have been her biological son, not like Finn, but she still loved him. She kissed him lightly on the cheek and tucked him in snugly and found herself unconsciously praying that he would open his eyes and come back to his family.

But he didn't move.

* * *

It was weird to be back.

Everything seemed the same. The uncomfortable desks, the smell of the cafeteria, the sounds of lockers slamming, that same sleepy sensation that he got every time he sat down for history class.

But the people all seemed different.

They kept giving him funny looks and a wide berth as he walked down the hall. None of his teammates offered friendly punches to welcome him back, just tentative shoulder pats, if anything. Teachers kept a close watch on him during classes, as if they were afraid he was going to keel over or have an emotional meltdown while they lectured.

It was unsettling.

"Finn, are you okay?"

He glanced up. Rachel sat next to him at the lunch table, her hip pressed up against his. "It's only your first day back," she said. "I'm sure your teachers would understand if you went home early."

He shook his head. "No, I'm okay," he said. He glanced around the table at all of his friends staring at him with that strange look on their faces. "Stop looking at me like that! I'm really okay."

"Sorry," Tina said, ducking her head and staring at the remains of her sandwich.

Finn sighed and stabbed at the food on his cafeteria tray. Rachel rubbed her fingertips on the back of his arm. "We're just concerned," she said gently. "I mean, your memory only came back a few days ago."

He winced. While he was relieved to know what happened, he really didn't want to think about it. "I'll be fine," he repeated.

Puck crumpled his empty chip bag. "You better be," he said. "You keel over in the hallway, I'm not catching you."

"None of us expect you to," Quinn said coolly. Puck scowled, as if he begged to differ but didn't want to say anything.

The bell rang, signaling the end of lunch. His tray was still half-full, but Finn dumped it out anyway and followed his friends to his next class. He wasn't that hungry, when he thought about it.

His afternoon classes dragged on, and he started wondering if Rachel was right, if he really should have gone home. His body ached from dragging himself down hallways and up stairs when he was still used to two weeks of lying in a hospital bed or on the living room couch.

But then it was time for glee rehearsal, and he was glad he hadn't left. Glee meant friends, and right now that was more important than sleeping through CSI marathons on the couch.

Mr. Schue gave them a little time to clown around, dancing off some of their pent-up energy after seven hours of schoolwork before launching into rehearsal. But after ten or fifteen minutes he turned off the CD player, half-laughing at his students' antics while he got their attention.

"Okay, you guys, time to get started," he said. He pulled a sheaf of sheet music out of his briefcase while the students took their seats. Rachel cuddled close to Finn in their front row seats, her arms tucked securely around his. He grinned down at her. It was kind of cute that she was so concerned over him.

"I've been thinking through some ideas for sectionals," Mr. Schue said, handing out the sheet music packets. "There's a couple of songs I think we should try, so we're going to sight-read some of them and see what we think."

Rachel tore eagerly through the pages, her eyes lighting up for some and her lips pulling into a frown for others. Finn just glanced at it, dreading the sight-reading process. He was never very good at that. Usually he just listened to Kurt and sang an octave lower.

He bit his lip. _Don't think about it, _he reminded himself.

Brad launched into the introduction and the others started singing; Finn followed along half-heartedly, stumbling through the notes. Rachel sang out strong and clear beside him. She was so caught up in her performance that she didn't notice him struggling initially, but when she realized he was having trouble keeping up she sidled closer with the sheet music spread between them. He followed her guiding finger as she led him through the tenor part, sometimes even dropping from soprano line to his so that he could have someone to follow.

He managed to sing through the four songs that Mr. Schue wanted them to try. His voice didn't sound all that fantastic- a combination of not practicing for a few weeks and not being able to read sheet music very well- but it was still fun. Rachel was pressed up against him, a warm and comforting sort of presence, and it was a relief to hear Brittany's one-liners and Santana's snark and Artie's nerdy jokes and Mercedes' laugh in the breaks. It was like life was normal again.

"Okay, guys, that was great," Mr. Schue said. "We might come back to one or two of those. They might be good for sectionals."

He rummaged around the piles of music on top of the piano and pulled out a glossy black songbook. "I think we should try 'Songs for a New World' again," he said. "It's a great piece and sort of unusual. Plus, we can do some really great solo work, especially in the bridge." He flipped through the book until he got to the right page. "Tina, I want you to take the opening."

Finn frowned. "I thought Kurt was singing that part," he said.

Mr. Schue glanced up. "He was, but I think Tina can do a good job with it," he said.

"I mean, she's just singing it for today, right?" Finn said.

"I think it might be a good idea if I reassigned it to Tina," Mr. Schue said quietly.

Rachel put her hand on Finn's thigh and squeezed it. He didn't know if it was meant to be comforting or a warning, but in either case he ignored it. "It's not like he's dead, Mr. Schue," he said.

Silence.

He glanced around at his friends. "Come on," he said. "He's going to get better. He'll be back."

No one answered him.

Finn couldn't breathe. "Kurt's going to be fine," he argued to no one in particular. "And that's his solo. You can't take it away from him." He stood up, his knees shaking despite himself. "He's going to come back."

Rachel took him by the arm. "You're upset," she said softly. "Let's go home, okay?"

He pulled away. "No," he said. "Tell them he's going to be okay. Tell them to stop looking at me like that."

He surveyed them desperately, his friends and Kurt's, waiting for support, for someone to back him up. But they just stayed silent- Tina, Artie, Quinn, Mike…even Mercedes, who just stared down at her shoes, hiding her face behind her hand while her shoulders shook. He lost the ability to speak, the words stopping in his throat.

Rachel tried to reach out for him, but he stumbled back. Someone gripped his shoulder, someone taller and stronger and more forceful than Rachel. "C'mon, Hudson," Puck muttered.

Finn said nothing as Puck forced him down the hallway and into the parking lot. He kept his mouth shut when Puck shoved him into the passenger seat of his battered old car and drove him home. And he couldn't say anything until they had been sitting in the driveway for a good ten minutes, the car idling noisily, and he realized that he had to voice the thought that he had been denying himself since he had dreamed about the accident.

"Kurt's going to die, isn't he?" he whispered hoarsely.

He had only encountered death once, when he hadn't been even a year old. And his father's death wasn't so much a sudden, painful bereavement, but a quiet empty space that he had simply lived with all his life.

But to lose someone that he knew, that he cared about…that was different. And sure, they had their differences, major differences. They fought and argued. But Kurt was his roommate, his friend, his singing partner. His little brother.

Finn slumped in the passenger seat of Puck's junky car, his long legs cramped and his arms folded across his chest. He stared blankly at the closed garage door, barely noticing when his vision blurred.

Puck's hand closed over his shoulder, tight and fierce. "Don't give up on him," he said. "If you give up on him, I'll have to too."

Finn covered his eyes with his hand, unable to speak, and Puck kept his grip on his shoulder, even as time ticked by on the dashboard clock and drops of rain started drizzling from the pearl gray sky.

* * *

Quinn glanced around before slipping into the intensive care room. Her superiors weren't going to be too happy about this, but she was on her break and it was during visiting hours anyway, so they couldn't get too mad at her, could they?

She leaned over Kurt and kissed him on the forehead. "Hi," she said softly.

Working at the hospital was turning out to be an even better deal than she thought. Sure, it wasn't her dream job and it didn't pay the best and she had to wear a really unattractive uniform, but it meant she could check on Kurt when no one else could come in to visit him.

"Finn's been back at school for a couple of days now," she told him. "He's doing better, but he's still kind of…shaken, I guess. He misses you a lot."

She stroked her fingers through his messy hair. If he had been awake, he would have been mortified by how he looked. "We all miss you," she said. "Glee isn't the same. Nobody can carry the high parts like you can. Not even Rachel." She smiled. "You missed it. She was wearing this sweater with a turkey on it. It was ridiculous. I told her that her first grade teacher called and she wanted her themed holiday sweater back. You would have been proud."

Her fingers moved from his hair to the curve of his jawline. His cheeks were thin and hollow, making his eyes look dark and sunken. She wondered how much weight he had lost during his three weeks in the hospital.

"None of us want to lose you, you know," she said quietly. "We all want you to get better. So you have to wake up, okay?"

She wondered what life would be like if he never came back. Glee wouldn't be the same, that's for sure. No more of his grand ideas and flashy costumes, or his bright clear voice soaring through the notes that no one else could hit, or his excited smiles when the audience applauded and his funny laugh when he watched Finn try to dance or listened to one of Mercedes' stories.

School would go on. The jocks would miss their favorite target and the teachers would miss his intelligence, but he would slip by in the collective school memory, a footnote in the yearbook. Maybe they would hold a candlelight vigil in the gym, or something hokey like that.

But there would have to be a funeral. She'd only gone to one before, when she was ten and her grandmother passed away. Her mother cried, and it was awful, so she clung to her father's coat sleeves and kept quiet while they sat in church, listening to the pastor talk about her gramma in the past tense.

She tried to picture it, standing next to Kurt's grave in a black dress. No, not a black dress. It would have to be the pink one that he bought her, when he took her shopping before school, when she had reached her pre-pregnancy weight and her mistake was reduced to a couple of fading stretch marks, but she would have gladly put those thirty pounds back on if it meant that she could snuggle her baby in her arms. Kurt had dragged her to the mall and made her try on dresses and shoes and pick out headbands and bracelets, entertaining her with his running fashion commentary until she was laughing instead of crying. And when he dropped her off at the crappy apartment where she and her mother lived now, he hugged her tightly, as if he was trying to tell her without words that he understood and he was sorry and he was worried about her.

No, not a black dress.

So she pictured it, standing by Kurt's grave in that pink dress, surrounded by Mercedes and Tina and Mike and Artie and Santana and Brittany and Rachel. Would Puck bother coming? No, of course he would. She would drag him there if she had to. Mr. Schue would be there, and Miss Pillsbury. Maybe even Coach Sylvester, if she was in a benevolent mood that day.

And Finn would be there, quiet and awkward and uncomfortable in his ill-fitting, rarely worn suit. His mother would be there too, holding on to him. She had gotten to know Carole decently well, back during Babygate, when she lived in Finn's house. His mom was kind and loving and gentle, and she knew that she thought of Kurt as her own child. So she would be upset, of course.

But Kurt's father…

She didn't know Mr. Hummel all that well. He came to the glee performances, and to Kurt's single football game, and even the pre-Nationals cheerleading show they did. And now that Kurt had been in the hospital, she had seen him there every day, sitting by his son's bed, looking more and more haggard as time went on but his voice stayed gentle while he talked to him.

He loved his son. She could tell. And she knew that Kurt's mother was dead, so his father had already dealt with losing someone important before. She couldn't imagine what would happen if he lost his son too.

"You have to get better, okay?" she ordered softly. "Nobody can make it without you."

She looked down at him and then drew back. "Kurt?" she said.

He was moving.

It was just a little bit, but it was more of a response than they had seen in weeks. His lips were moving around the ventilator and he was almost making a face, as if he was upset.

Quinn hit the call button several times, then grabbed his hands. "It's okay, baby, it's okay," she said, her voice rising in panic and the endearment slipping out despite herself. "Kurt, baby, you're okay."

The machines beeped and the ventilator shook and she gripped his cold slender fingers. "Just hold on, okay?" she begged. "Just hold on."

* * *

He hated going out there.

It was a thirty minute drive from the house, wending his way through narrow two-lane roads that twisted and turned past green fields and black fences, until he reached the outskirts of Lima. Usually he only made the trek once a year, on a disproportionately sunny day in May, and that was more than enough for him.

But he never came alone. His son always sat in the passenger seat, a little taller and a little older than he was for last year's trip, always pale and quiet and looking thoughtfully out the window. Sometimes he cried silently on the way back, always silently, the tears clouding the pretty eyes that looked just like his mother's until they spilled out and dribbled down his cheeks and dripped off his chin.

He never said anything about it. If he tried to speak, it would just start him up too. So he kept his mouth shut and kept his hand on his son's knee, moving his thumb up and down in a steady, reassuring rhythm. And slowly his little boy's hand would creep closer and closer until his tiny fingers would close over his big rough ones.

He was only nine years old for that first trip, a fourth grader, a little boy in sneakers and glasses. Just a baby, really. But time had gone by, and he was a little older and a little taller for each trip, until the last one made him realize with a jolt that it wasn't his baby sitting next to him, clutching his hand and trying not to cry, but a young man.

It made his heart hurt to think of making this trip without him.

Burt finally switched off the ignition and picked up the bouquet discarded in the front seat before he could talk himself out of it and drive back home. The crisp, fragile cellophane wrapped around the flowers crinkled noisily as he slammed the driver's side door and stalked across the parking lot.

No one was around, and for that he was thankful. He walked through the wet graying grass, dull and lifeless in the continuing fall weather. There was no need to consult the directory in the tiny front office. He knew where he was going.

He picked it out specifically. It was a small, cozy spot, tucked away from most of the other neat rows under the branches of a birch tree. He walked up to the gray stone, the treads of his work boots slipping across the grass.

"Hi, little girl," he said gruffly his voice sounding too loud in the quiet hush. "I know I only come once a year, but I figured this was enough to make an exception."

He brushed away the dead leaves in front of the stone. This was always Kurt's part. He put together the flowers, picking the blooms and colors and scents that he remembered she liked best and binding the stems with a ribbon. Then he would clean up the little plot and place the new flowers down gently.

"Kurt's better at this than me," he said. He pried away the rubber band that held the grocery-store bouquet together and peeled away the cellophane, stuffing it in his pocket so it wouldn't blow away in the late autumn wind. "They're not as good as his, but…I brought you daisies. I know they're your favorite."

He remembered going to the park with her, first when she was a starry-eyed teenager and he was her proud boyfriend, then when they were happy newlyweds, then as young parents. She used to pack picnics and bring toys for the baby and fishing magazines for him and they spent hours in the sunshine. She would sit between them, sometimes leaning over to kiss him, sometimes picking up her round-cheeked baby to snuggle him on her lap, but she always seemed to be surrounded by flowers- daisies and pink clover and buttercups. She would sit in the grass with blossoms spread around her and weave them into chains. When Kurt got older he would clamor for her to make him crowns and necklaces and bracelets and she would oblige, draping him with floral jewelry. Sometimes he would run over to his father, giggling, and Burt would permit him to deck him out while Mollie laughed.

Burt shook his head. He didn't come to reminisce. That was reserved for a sacred, terrible, May morning, not a dismal, rainy November afternoon. He looked around Mollie's grave, looking at the plots that were still open. Kurt would want to be buried beside his mother. It was only fair.

Burt set the bouquet of yellow and white daisies on his wife's grave. For an awful moment, he wondered what he would bring for Kurt. But he closed his eyes, and took a breath, and traced his fingers over the sunken letters on the gravestone that spelled out Mollie's name and the dates that marked her brief life.

"What should I do now?" he asked aloud.

He sat there for what felt like a decade, crouching in the wet grass until his legs ached and the sky had darkened and the cool wind was beginning to cut through his coat. Reluctantly he stood up, balancing carefully until the feeling came back into his creaking knees, and made the slow walk back to his truck.

He got ready to pull out and start the drive back to Lima, but he rummaged through his glove compartment first. Mixed in amongst the drive through napkins and pens and his truck registration were a couple of cassette tape cases. He tugged out the first one he could reached and squinted at the faint round cursive on the side of the box. It wasn't exactly the one he was looking for, but it would work. He took out his well-worn Springsteen tape and popped in the other cassette.

It whirred to life as he turned on his headlights and navigated out of the little parking lot and back onto the two-lane road. There was a moment of static, and then it started.

"Hi, Burt."

It didn't matter that it was a ten-year-old recording. For a moment, it was like Mollie was back.

"Say hi to Daddy."

"Hi, Daddy!"

He smiled at the sound of his son. Kurt had always had such a high, piping little voice.

"So it's your birthday again, and KK and I have come up with a really good list of songs for you."

"Better than last year!"

No one had called Kurt that nickname in years. Mollie came up with that, claiming that every baby needed a pet name. She called him that up until he started preschool, and then saved it for the important moments- when he was hurt, or he was sick, or he woke up with a bad dream. But the nickname had died with his mother.

"This is the first one. Kurt picked it, so you have to like it, okay?" Mollie started playing the piano, the sound slightly faraway. Then she started singing, clear and sweet. Kurt joined in, his voice high and just a little bit warbly.

Burt smiled despite himself. He had a whole stack of those tapes, starting when Mollie was fifteen and they had just started dating. She loved poking fun at his taste in music, and delighted in making him mix tapes of music she found to be more appropriate. But every birthday she picked songs that she liked and he liked and recorded herself playing them on her piano and singing, adding in a running commentary and a sweet, funny little birthday message. When Kurt got old enough, he helped her.

The first side of the tape finished when he realized that he had gone on autopilot and was driving to the hospital instead of back to the house or the garage. For a second he debated turning around. Carole would be at home, probably putting dinner on the table. It would be nice to sit down and have a real meal. And Finn would most likely be slouched on the couch, staring blankly at a football game he wasn't really watching. The kid had been really upset lately; it might be good to sit down and keep him company.

But as appealing as that sounded, he kept driving towards the hospital. He needed to see his son. There might not be much time left to be with him.

He parked and headed inside, shoving his hands in his pockets as he walked through the dark parking lot. It was past visiting hours, but Kurt's doctors had stopped asking him to leave when they were over.

He headed upstairs to intensive care unit, bracing himself for the ventilator and the IV and the heart monitors. But he frowned as approached. Carole was there, and Finn, and that young girl doctor. His heart stopped beating.

"What's going on?" he demanded. "Kurt? Is Kurt…"

The doctor turned around. "He started fighting the ventilator," she said.

He still couldn't get his heart to start back up. "I don't know what you're saying," he said. "You're smiling. This is good?"

"It's really good," Carole said. "Burt, he's off the ventilator. He's breathing on his own again."

His heart went from dead to racing. "So he's going to be okay?" he said.

"I can't tell you anything for sure, but this is a huge improvement," the young doctor said. "We removed the ventilator about two hours ago and we've been monitoring him closely. His breathing is very steady and we've even seen a little movement."

"He looks a lot better," Finn said, relief all over his face.

Burt sat down on the edge of his son's bed. Kurt was still pale and his closed eyes were still ringed with dark bruises, but his lips had color again and he was breathing. "Hey, kiddo," he said. "You get better, okay?"

He took his hand and squeezed, remembering the sound of his son's childish voice on those old mix tapes. "Take all the time you need. I'll be here when you're ready."

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

Don't panic! There shall be one last chapter.

I, in my authorly wisdom (um, yeah right) have decided there will be one more chapter, and then the story will be over. If people really want more, I do have some epilogue ideas bouncing around, but yeah. The lovely **Prieva **totally called it, and there's no reason for me to continue harping on a story that could have ended strong four chapters earlier. I mean, that's why _Oliver Twist _has such a janked ending, amirite?

But yeah. One more official chapter. And then you'll get to see if Kurt lives or not...

I might have to write that oneshot about Kurt taking Quinn shopping. I think it would be unbearably sweet.

Also, I came up with all these little things about Kurt's mother, and somehow she ends up in every dang story I write. And then I'm like "dang, girl! I'm giving you your own multichapter! Leave me alone!" And then I write Mollie into crap. Gaurgh.

Please, please, please listen to "Songs for a New World." It's the titular song of one of my favorite musicals, and it never fails to give me chills.

So...in any case! I hope you enjoyed this penultimate chapter. One more to go! Please let me know what you think of it.


End file.
